Red Rain
by thegraytigress
Summary: A mission into Crimea leads Natasha back somewhere she never wanted to go again: her past. With Steve at her side, she must battle demons best left to darkness and resist answering the call of those who made her who she was. The only way to protect everything and everyone she loves is to stay the person she has become, no matter the sacrifice.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger, __Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, adult situations)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Welcome, one and all! So here we begin the trials of Steve and Natasha. There are no spoilers for _The Winter Soldier _in this, though those of you who have seen the movie will recognize a few familiar (and possibly unwelcome) faces. Clint will also make an appearance (because seriously – what was he doing during _The Winter Soldier_? I think I would have died of happiness (well, more happiness) if he had made a cameo).

Warnings for the usual: injuries, angst, general darkness. :-) This is strong Steve/Natasha (which is going to make this AU with respect to _The Winter Soldier_), with hints of Clint/Natasha here and there. Parts of the plot are canon with the comics, parts are canon with MCU, and parts I'm flat-out making up. Enough rambling. Enjoy!

**RED RAIN**

**1**

Through the haze of sleep, Clint heard something buzzing. He tried to ignore it, but it was _annoyingly_ persistent. Groaning, his threw one arm over his eyes and the other toward the table beside his bunk. "Damn it," he grumbled. He glanced blearily at the chronometer, blinking when the blue numbers refused to focus. 0400. He'd been back for a whopping two hours, and already the brass was bothering him. He tried to go back to sleep; he was too bone-weary and bruised for this crap. To hell with their debriefing. But he couldn't ignore the irritating sound of his phone rattling against the nightstand. He clumsily fumbled for it, muttering and cursing and wincing and _really_ not wanting to deal with Fury's disappointment over his failed, wild goose chase of a mission. Finally he got it and thumbed the screen and pulled it to his ear. "What?" he croaked.

It was Hill. "Barton, the STRIKE Team is coming in. They're reporting heavy casualties."

Her tense words sliced through fog in his aching head like a sword, and he sat up quickly, jolted by sharp worry. "What? When?"

"No details yet. ETA: three minutes."

There were things she wasn't telling him. He knew it immediately. "What happened?" The worst case raced through his muddled mind, and his heart sped in sudden anxiety. "Is Romanoff–"

"Just get to medical," Hill coldly ordered, and the line went dead.

Clint slowly lowered his phone. The screen dimmed, and his world was plunged into shadow again. But that didn't stop him. He rolled out of his bunk, stuffing his feet into his combat boots and lacing and tying them. Thankfully he hadn't bothered undressing before collapsing in his bed. He was up a breath later, grabbing his SHIELD issue jacket from the back of his chair and his sidearm. He strapped the holster onto his thigh and ran out the door.

Despite the late hour, the helicarrier was alive. Obviously news of the STRIKE Team's imminent arrival had spread through it like wildfire, and the narrow corridors were filled with agents and soldiers rushing to their stations. Over the PA system came orders from the bridge, summoning all medical personnel from sleep to report to the infirmary. Clint's boots thudded against the deck plating loudly as he ran through the maze-like interior of the massive vessel, side-stepping people in his way, not bothering to excuse himself when he couldn't avoid them. He reached the lift. "Medical bay," he barked.

"Medical bay confirmed," the soft, feminine voice of the computer responded. Clint could hardly keep still as the lift began its ascent. His mind was racing. He hadn't seen Natasha for nearly a month since he'd been deployed to Europe on the trail of a pair of 084s. This wasn't the first time they'd been separated; in fact, since the Battle of New York they had rarely worked together. Natasha had spent most of her time working with the STRIKE Team; she had effectively become Fury's go-to asset for missions of the utmost importance. On the other hand, Clint had been saddled with missions that generally kept him out of action, menial and tedious tasks that were well beneath his expertise as a spy and marksman. He was beginning to think he was being punished for things that had been beyond his control, for being Loki's puppet back during the Chitauri incident, for having his mind enslaved and his will conquered. He didn't like to consider himself as a victim, but ever since New York, he got the impression that people pitied him. He was beginning to suspect he'd been permanently compromised in the eyes of SHIELD's high level agents. And he got the feeling that Director Fury and the World Security Council didn't trust him.

Hell, he _knew_ for a fact that the World Security Council had written him off as too serious a liability ever since he'd defied their orders and spared Natasha's life when he'd been dispatched to assassinate her. It didn't matter that Black Widow had become an indispensable agent of SHIELD, a tool capable of espionage, manipulation, and murder like nothing and no one else. She was a risk, and so was he.

The lift deposited him on the second level below the flight deck where the medical bay was located. It was housed here as a precaution; on the interior of the carrier, it was not easily accessible to an attacking force or enemy fire yet it was still close to the deck itself where wounded would be brought. He reached the glass doors, and the retinal scanner immediately identified him and opened the way. Clint raced inside.

Barely controlled chaos dominated the scene before him. His eyes rapidly scanned the pandemonium. The STRIKE Team was unmistakable, clad completely in black combat gear with yellow patches emblazoned with the SHIELD logo on the shoulders of their uniforms. They were the best soldiers SHIELD had to offer, the best in the world in fact, highly skilled professionals in black and covert ops. They didn't fail. They never fell short. This was SHIELD's assault team, the first responders against the deranged and violent, the force that was sent in to stop terrorists and take down madmen and control the worst evil the world had to offer. When the Council wanted something done quickly and efficiently, the STRIKE Team was what they sent to do it. Clint had served with them multiple times in the past. They were no-nonsense and silent killers, deadly in even the most difficult and dangerous situations, so the fact that quite a few of them were laying on gurneys, broken and burned and bleeding, was pretty disturbing.

Not so disturbing as what he saw next, though.

The main doors of the medical bay slammed open, and a gurney burst through them. It was flanked by a half a dozen doctors and nurses, and it seemed like they were all shouting. "Clear the way! _Clear the way!_"

"How bad is it?"

"Really bad," answered one of the doctors, a young guy with wire-rimmed glasses who looked about ready to pass out. "BP's in the tank. Hypovolemic shock. Multiple major wounds to the chest. Rigid abdomen. Collapsed left lung and reduced breath sounds on the right. Blunt force trauma to the head. Patient is unresponsive."

"Somebody get better pressure on his leg!"

"He's v-tach!"

"Damn it, he's bleeding out! If we don't get this under control…"

"Have them send up as much blood as they can!"

Another of the doctors shouted, "We need the OR _now!_"

Clint observed in horror as the gurney was rapidly pushed by him. "Jesus," he whispered when he caught sight of who lay on it. Steve Rogers was unconscious and covered in grime and blood from head to toe. His blue uniform was stained a gruesome purple. Over his chest it had been cut open and pulled aside, revealing lacerated flesh and deep contusions and red welts and an ocean of crimson that was spilling down the planes of his stomach and flooding the stretcher. He wasn't breathing on his own, a tube shoved down his throat that was connected to a bag that a horrified nurse was rhythmically squeezing. His face was a mess of bruises, blood weeping from a gash along his forehead and temple and matting in his hair. A few other nurses were desperately trying to get some pressure on what looked like a gunshot wound to his left thigh. His right hand was a filthy mess of red. The worst of it, however, was a bullet hole in his chest right over his heart that was letting blood loose in a torrent. It dripped to the floor like rain.

He looked dead.

That wasn't possible. Something inside Clint throbbed in anguish at the horrific sight. Captain America didn't get hurt, at least not like this. Captain America was the best soldier there ever was, a true leader and symbol of integrity and valor. Captain America was stronger and faster than anyone. Captain America _never fell._

"Oh, my God," Hill whispered. Clint hadn't noticed her approach, but now she stood beside him, ashen and wide-eyed. Not much served to faze her; she was endlessly calm and endlessly stoic. But she looked shocked and lost. "What happened?"

"Where were they?" Clint demanded. "What the hell were they–"

"They called in for support, but I had no idea…"

The doors were shoved roughly open again, and Brock Rumlow staggered through them. Another of the STRIKE Team stumbled beside him, his arm draped over Rumlow's shoulders. Rumlow winced, limping himself, depositing his injured comrade on an empty hospital bed. The man fell back, moaning. Rumlow was breathing heavily, holding an obvious gunshot wound in his side. "We need help here!" he yelled, his tough face etched in pain and anger and glistening in sweat.

A few nurses immediately moved to tend to the newly arriving wounded. Hill recovered from her alarm quickly enough, stepping closer to Rumlow where he leaned tiredly against one of the beds. His hand was covered in blood, but it was obvious that was wound wasn't overly serious. "Agent Rumlow, report," she ordered.

Rumlow couldn't seem to catch his breath. Clint didn't know him very well. The man was humorless and something of a prick, rough and harsh with everyone. Still, he was damn good at his job and he knew it. Everyone knew it. "Everything went to hell," he hoarsely answered.

"Besides the obvious," Hill tersely said. "What happened to Rogers?"

Rumlow regarded Hill with irritated, angry eyes. His tone was laden with spite. "He took out the Red Guardian. Mission accomplished, right, Hill? Isn't that what you wanted?"

Clint narrowed his eyes. He wasn't sure what the mission had been – _who the hell is the Red Guardian?_ – but whatever had happened, it was blatantly obvious that wasn't the whole story. Hill looked as confused as he was, which was even more of an indication that whatever the STRIKE Team had been sent to do hadn't gone as planned. He didn't have the patience for Rumlow's acidic and cryptic answers. A lot of the STRIKE Team was inside the medical bay now, but Natasha was still nowhere in sight. If Rogers was here, she would be as well; Fury had been partnering the two of them almost constantly in the last year or so. Clint's heart thudded rapidly in worry (and fear if he could admit that to himself, which he'd found a lot easier to do since New York). "Where's Romanoff?"

Rumlow flashed furious eyes at him. "That all you care about, Barton?" he seethed. "We got our asses handed to us out there. Rogers nearly _died_ on the way here. And that's all you care about?"

Hill sensed the situation degrading. She darted icy eyes between the two men. "Easy, Rumlow. We need level heads while we get a handle on the situation. Fury wants a debriefing immediately."

But Clint wouldn't be dissuaded. Everything felt pulled tight within him, and the more Rumlow glared at him, the more his impatient concern was amplified. He was so tired, and horrible images flashed through his mind. Natasha dead. Natasha as badly hurt as Rogers. Behind them alarms suddenly wailed. Clint turned, breaking his vicious stare, and watched the hell unfolding. The doctors were screaming orders, panicked and desperate, fumbling for bandages and syringes filled with atropine and a goddamn defibrillator. Rogers' heart wasn't beating.

The rear doors of the bay swished open, and Nick Fury walked in, dark and intimidating. His good eye was narrowed in barely controlled rage. When his sharp gaze fell upon the slew of doctors fighting to save Rogers' life, his face slackened in alarm. It was a momentary expression of weakness. Clint could count the number of times on one hand he'd ever seen Fury afraid or disturbed. That brief look was gone in a blink, replaced with a stony, stoic set of his jaw and a narrowing of his eye.

A slew of frantic commands filled the bay from the corner where the doctors struggled. "No pulse."

The whine of a machine charging. "Hurry with the atropine!"

One of the doctors was compressing Rogers' chest with all the force and calm she could muster. "Come on, Captain Rogers, don't do this…"

Fury looked to his agents, but his gaze kept drifting back to the horror playing out in front of them. "What the hell happened?"

Rumlow's confrontational expression loosened out of respect for his commanding officer and maybe even concern that Rogers was dying right in front of them. One of the doctors was crouched before the soldier with a pile of bandages and another nurse unzipped his combat vest and helped him remove it. He winced when it came away from the wound. "We completed the mission objectives, Director."

"The mission objectives did _not_ involve a military operation of this magnitude, especially not on Russian soil!" Fury returned coldly. It was obvious he was less than pleased. "The Council did _not _authorize action. You were supposed to offer support to Rogers and Romanoff and extraction if necessary. You were supposed to wait for my go-ahead. Was anything about that unclear?"

Rumlow didn't react to the insult. "No, sir."

"I don't recall giving an assault order!"

"You put Captain Rogers in charge," Rumlow argued. He grunted as the doctor pressed a sterile pad to the gunshot wound. "He authorized it. Said we couldn't let those what those ships were carrying reach Russian territory, so we stopped them. Seeing what those bastards were up to… Sir, he was right."

Fury looked to be at a loss. That was another thing that he rarely ever was. But before he could say anything, the doors in the rear of the bay opened again. There was a glint of red. Clint's eyes shot to the figures stumbling inside. "Natasha," he whispered.

She staggered inside. He knew immediately that something was _seriously_ wrong. Her auburn hair was mussed and tangled. Her face was bruised but extremely white around the marks. Her lip was split. She wouldn't look at anyone, watery, red eyes focused on the floor. Clint's heart thudded wildly in his chest. Her hands were bound, zip tied in front of her. And two members of the STRIKE Team flanked her, their guns trained on her like she was a prisoner.

"What the hell…" he whispered. He was across the bay in a breath, running with long, fervent strides. "Natasha? Natasha!"

Jack Rollins whipped his gun up and pointed it at Clint. "Back off, Barton!" he warned. His eyes glinted dangerously, and his finger was poised on the trigger. Clint gritted his teeth, his hand reaching for his own gun in its holster on his thigh. Rollins' eyes flashed. "I said _back off!_"

The roar cut through the chaos of the infirmary. For a second, everything was completely still, even the pulse of frantic action behind them. But it couldn't last. "Clear! Damn it, move out the way!" There was a heavy thud of a body being shocked and jolting upward unnaturally before settling lifelessly down again. "Recharge higher!"

"Get your gun off of her," Clint hissed. "_Now._"

The other STRIKE agent shoved Natasha to the deck plating. She didn't struggle, bowing her head and closing her eyes as she struck the floor hard on her knees. Clint saw other things then. Blood on her clothes. Blood in her hair. Blood on her hands. So much red.

The tension was palpable, the air electrified with terror. Rollins didn't budge or blink. Neither did Clint. "What's matter with you? She's a senior agent! Get your goddamn gun off of her!" he yelled.

"Stand down!" Fury bellowed. He was there, pushing his way between the two of them. His glare was cutting, promising swift wrath and retribution if either of them caused the situation to escalate any further. "Both of you!"

Another long moment passed in which nobody moved or yielded. Clint glanced at Natasha, but she remained utterly unmoving, her bloody hands lying uselessly and limply in her lap. She still refused to meet his gaze. Confusion left Clint reeling, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that fighting wasn't the answer. Especially if Natasha wasn't going to defend herself.

Something horrible had happened.

"Clear!" Another thud of discharging electricity against flesh. A second stretched into forever.

"We got a pulse!"

"Thank God," someone breathed in weary relief. "Thank God. Okay, we need to move him. Hurry."

"The OR's prepped, Doctor!"

"Move! _Go!_"

The yells from behind them and the flurry of frenzied motion to get Rogers out of triage and into surgery served to diffuse the situation. But there was no relief. Clint dropped his hand from his gun, glaring venomously at Rollins. The STRIKE agent finally lowered his weapon, but he didn't holster it. Fury turned back to Rollins, silently threatening, and then looked at Rumlow. "I want an explanation as to why Captain America is bleeding out all over my medical bay and why Romanoff looks like a zombie out of some goddamn horror movie. It had better be good."

To hell with answers. "She needs medical attention," Clint interrupted, itching to get closer to Natasha to see how badly hurt she truly was. She was obviously disoriented, catatonic almost, and the amount of blood covering her was staggering. He'd never seen her like this. All of her poise, her infallible shields and indomitable control over her body and mind and emotions… It was gone. "Right now! Get a doctor over here!"

"Agent Barton, you will keep your mouth shut until I tell you otherwise," Fury seethed.

Clint nearly lost his composure. Tensing every muscle in his body was all he could do to not lash out. "Sir, Agent Romanoff is bleeding badly. I don't know what they think she did, but she _needs _medical attention. We can sort the rest of this out–"

"What we _think_ she did?" Rumlow said lowly. He was obviously disgusted with this entire situation but even angrier at Clint's reaction. "You weren't there. _You didn't see it._ That blood you're so concerned about? Not hers."

Clint's own blood turned to ice. "What?"

"Sir," Hill interjected as she approached. She was a tad breathless and putting forth an admirable effort at seeming stoic when it was very clear she was anything but. "They're taking Captain Rogers to surgery. They…" She uncharacteristically faltered. "There's a bullet in his heart. They don't know if they can get it out." Her pale face whitened even further, and her eyes betrayed her dismay. "They don't think he's going to live."

With that, the tense, miserable silence returned. Clint was shaken and reeling and so miserably confused. His skin itched and tingled to do _something_, anything, but he wasn't sure what. He wasn't sure of anything. His mind was racing, twisting and turning in a heated storm of unanswered questions and emotions struggling to run rampant. What had happened? _What the hell had happened?_

"She betrayed us, Director," Rumlow said.

Fury saw the connection that Clint couldn't make himself see. "Are you saying that she did this to Rogers?" he asked softly and slowly. It wasn't often Fury betrayed anything about what he was thinking, but he looked utterly shocked and horrified. And it _was_ horrifying. Black Widow had gone straight. She was a deadly assassin and a ruthless killer, but she played for the right team now. Underneath all of the lies and seduction and manipulation, she was a good person, loyal and true to the cause. SHIELD's cause. Building a better, safer world. Clint had saved her and set her straight.

Rumlow's face hardened into a scowl. "After Rogers took out the Guardian, she took out Rogers." His baleful eyes shifted to Natasha's bound form at Rollins' feet. She did nothing, said nothing to dispute it or defend herself. She was shivering helplessly in shock. Rumlow's eyes glimmered in murderous rage. "Point blank."

It couldn't be possible. It wasn't _possible_. The urge to fight, to deny these lies, ripped through Clint's veins with every strained beat of his agonized heart. Rumlow was a bastard in the strictest sense; he was trying to take out an agent higher-up in the chain of command. He was trying to destroy a threat to his career. He was trying to discredit someone he perceived as competition. He was opportunistic and vindictive.

Clint looked at Natasha, praying for some confirmation of his desperate thoughts. She still stared at the floor, bent and crushed and defeated. No, it wasn't true. He knew it in his heart. It couldn't be true. "You're a goddamned liar," Clint hissed at Rumlow. The tension returned, crackling with the threat of violence as this unimaginable nightmare went on. Hands went to guns again. Orders could be damned. He wasn't going to let them hurt Romanoff. He wasn't going to stand there and let them accuse her of something she _would never do_. He wasn't going to–

"No." Natasha's soft, broken voice seemed incredibly loud. She looked up finally. Her blue eyes were _dead_. "No, he's right."

Clint shook his head. "Nat–"

"I did it," she whispered. A tear slipped down her pale cheek, cutting through grime and blood. "I shot Steve."


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger, __Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, adult situations)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Oh my word… Thank you all so much for the excitement over this one! All the alerts and favorites and reviews were downright overwhelming. I hope I can deliver for you guys :-). This story is shaping up to be long (I think), and hopefully it'll be a wild ride.

Herein we have a touch of current events (modified to fit the story) and a touch of comic canon. All of my Russian facts and history and phrases are from researching the internet, which, as we all know, is a good resource but not necessarily always right. If you find mistakes, please tell me so I can correct them.

**RED RAIN**

**2**

_ One week prior_

Natasha knocked on the door. There was no answer at first, but she was patient. She wouldn't be very good at her job otherwise. The apartment building was utterly silent this time of night. It was that awkward time, too late to be yesterday but too early to be today, and long shadows swept from walls painted golden by the dimmed sconces. It was really ridiculous (and probably inappropriate) that she was here, but she didn't think twice about it. She didn't want to acknowledge the whispering anticipation of her ulterior motive, but it was pretty hard not to, especially when the door creaked open.

Steve stood there shirtless, his hair sticking up wildly, rubbing sleep from bleary blue eyes. Her eyes flicked from his face and down his chest – no man should ever look so perfect – across unblemished skin and rippling muscles and down further to where his pajama pants hung low on his hips before darting back upward. Thankfully, he was too sleepy (or too naïve – it was always hard to tell with Rogers) to notice. "Nat? What are you doing here?"

"Get dressed," she said. "Mission brief in an hour."

"Huh?" He shook his head as if to jostle himself to awareness. "It's three in the morning. Haven't you ever heard of a phone?"

"Funny coming from you."

Steve's eyes darkened ever so slightly. "We did have telephones back in the 40s," he reminded. "You could have called."

She was far too much of a master of her own emotions to betray even the tiniest bit that she'd been found out. "Would you have been in a better mood if I had? Pretty rude, Rogers, leaving a lady standing out in the hallway."

He flushed a little and his angry expression softened. She'd learned early on in their partnership that the easiest way to manipulate him was to appeal to his morals. His sense of right and wrong was iron-clad and naïvely unwavering and unendingly exploitable. He would without any complaint do anything and everything to be a good gentleman. "Sorry." He stepped to the left so she could pass.

She stepped inside his apartment. She'd never been there before. It was spacious and very nicely furnished, though she was certain he hadn't been the one to decorate it. Everything was… _simple_. A wooden coffee table that was devoid of books or papers or anything. A white couch that had no flourish or any aesthetic design behind it. Other chairs and tables that were the same, not harsh but not entirely welcoming either. Shelves filled with books, some of which looked read and some not. Polished hardwood floors shone in the dim light, occasionally adorned with rugs and runners that had no pattern. Boring lamps and uninteresting curtains. Everything was monotone tans and beiges and whites and grays. It was a blank canvas, a home put together by someone who'd been handed a personnel file and told to create something that that the man behind the file would like. It was designed by somebody who'd grown up with plenty in the future for somebody who'd grown up with nothing in the past. It was overly straightforward, overly bland, and overly practical. It wasn't him.

On one of the bookshelves there was an array of framed pictures. They were all black and white, obviously taken during World War II. A nice-looking young man stood next to Captain America and both of them were smiling broadly. An eclectic team of soldiers wore bowlers and berets and were armed to the teeth. And there was a beautiful woman wearing a military uniform. She had striking dark eyes and dark hair and full lips that Natasha imagined were probably painted deep red. This one shelf was the only sign of Steve in the room.

"Nice place," she commented.

Steve closed the door. "Thanks," he murmured.

"Could use a woman's touch, though." She coyly cocked an eyebrow.

Steve ran a hand through his hair. His face was a cross between mortified and ashamed. "Haven't exactly had the time to find myself a date between trying to figure out the world and trying to save it. And I wouldn't even begin to know where to look, honestly. This is all, uh… well…"

She smiled. "Rogers, this is the twenty-first century. When you can't find something, you look on the internet."

He winced. "I'd rather not tie my chances of finding a dame – a girl…" He stammered and paused, obviously struggling to find the words to kindly express what he wanted to say. "Just… I'd rather not date with a computer, if it's all the same."

Sometimes she was downright disturbed about how incapable he was with women. He couldn't really be so blind as to not know how desirable he was, could he? She figured he must be. He was nothing if not earnest and sincere. He was Captain America, for God's sake. Women would line up around the world for a chance at that. But, then, his obliviousness was part of his charm, she supposed. So many men were so self-absorbed, or at the very least aware of how to manipulate their good attributes to snag a girl. Steve seemed to be hopeless, too uncertain of himself in this world of fast-paced hook-ups and break-ups. Either that or he didn't want just anyone. She was talking before she thought better of it, because the thought of him lonely or depressed or sad in this new world upset her even if she didn't want to admit it to herself. "I could set you up with someone."

He smiled but was obviously uncomfortable with the idea. "It's okay," he said. "I'm alright. Besides, I doubt women are climbing over themselves to date a ninety-five year old." He had no idea. It was sad, in a cute sort of way. And it was also a relief, but she wouldn't say that. Thankfully, he changed the subject. "Fury tell you anything about what this is about?"

"Nope."

"We just got back. Why so soon?"

Natasha shrugged. "The world of international terrorism doesn't run on a timetable with downtime built in," she dryly said, although truth be told, she was a little irritated that Hill had contacted her forty-five minutes ago with strict orders from Fury to report to the Triskelion for another mission brief. They _had_ just returned from the last one (a simple deployment to Iran to take down a sloppy mess of militants who'd gotten their hands on Chitauri weaponry from the black market. They'd been downright stupid, having had no idea what they'd purchased let alone how to use it, and the STRIKE Team had made short work of them. Hell, she hadn't even fired her gun.). It seemed that Fury had been calling upon Rogers and her more and more of late, ever since he'd paired them off about a year ago. She didn't mind working with Steve; in fact, she was beginning to enjoy it (if she was honest with herself, which she tried not to be). But she was getting weary of the constant bombardment of work, of mission after mission after mission.

Steve didn't look pleased. "Alright. Help yourself to anything you want. I'm just gonna get dressed." He padded on bare feet down the main hallway to the back of the apartment. She made some pretense of looking around before following silently. Her curiosity was piqued. There was a den to her left and a spacious bathroom to the right. At the end of the hallway she found another living area equipped with a massive flat screen on the wall that looked like it was rarely if ever used. There was a Blu-ray player and a pile of discs that sat atop it with a note. She recognized Tony Stark's sloppy scrawl. _"Cap – This is your initiation into modern science fiction. But you need to watch them in this order – don't deviate!"_ It was the _Star Wars_ movies, and the rest of the note had some complicated explanation of which movies to watch and which to ignore. The corner her lips twisted in a bit of a smile.

There was another coffee table, and this one did have books and papers on it. History books. Fiction. All the great works of literature since 1945. She wasn't surprised that Steve was reading; she knew SHIELD had assigned him a psychiatrist or two to help him adjust to the 21st century. But she was surprised at what he was reading, everything from books on 9/11 and biographies of George W. Bush and Bill Clinton and President Matthew Ellis to the _Harry Potter_ series to political analyses of Vietnam and the Gulf War to Kurt Vonnegut and Chuck Palahnuik. And he was tearing through it all. She had witnessed firsthand what the super soldier serum could do, his raw strength and speed and endurance. She supposed it only made sense that he could read and learn better than anyone else, too.

There was a laptop computer, too, and a tablet. And a notebook that she opened. She grinned at the list she found, notes he kept with things people had recommended he check out. And there was a StarkPhone that looked untouched (undoubtedly a gift from Tony as well). Folders from SHIELD. She lifted the flap of one and expected recent mission reports but saw a data file on a man named Timothy Dugan. Immediately she recognized the face from one of the photos in the front and realized this man was one of the Howling Commandos. Seventy years in the past Steve and his team had saved the world from the Nazis and HYDRA, and this man was long dead. Beside those she found a few papers that were old and yellowed, covered with pretty cursive writing that could have only come from a woman. She peered closer. On top of the bundle there was a note with that same, pristine cursive, if not a little more jagged as though the person's hand had been shaking while writing.

_Dear Steve,_

_Read these and know that I never stopped thinking about you and what could have been._

_All my love,  
__Peggy_

Natasha thought for a moment she shouldn't go any further. It wasn't often that her conscience impeded her, but now she felt decidedly dirty just staring what were obviously letters from an old flame. That was most certainly not her business, and Steve was her partner, not her mark. A little pang of something ached in her heart. She couldn't remember the last time she hesitated about spying. But she did.

"You think it's at all strange that SHIELD is suddenly on the offensive?" Steve's voice stayed her hand as it reached toward the letters. She whirled away, flushing in shame as though she'd been caught in the act, but Steve was still in his bedroom. She recovered her composure, the jolt of adrenaline disappearing as quickly as it had come, and she walked silently down the adjacent hallway.

From her vantage, she could see into his bedroom. He was emerging from the bathroom, clad only in boxer shorts that left little to the imagination. She watched as he pawned through a drawer in his dresser, his back to her. Muscles shifted and his skin glowed gold in the light. There was something entrancing about the way he moved. She'd never seen him like this before. She'd heard other agents, lower-level female agents, gossip about him in the past. A veritable, real-life Adonis. Male perfection, they'd called it, and they were practically slavering over it. Even Hill, who had about as much personality as an icicle, ogled him every so often when she thought no one was looking. That was part of the reason Natasha had come when she could have called, part of the reason she felt a tad jealous seeing those letters. Despite her training and reputation, despite how much she knew to not become involved with people (not her marks and certainly not her fellow agents), she was attracted to Steve Rogers.

She didn't want to admit that to herself, but she was. She knew she shouldn't be. It went against everything she had been made to be. She knew it was dangerous. But she couldn't stop herself. With him, she wasn't in control. Sex and love were means to an end: getting information, getting her target to trust her, getting close enough to take him out without him ever seeing her coming. Sex was about power, about domination, about pleasure and release. She was a master at using and abusing love and lust and everything in between. She owned men with a glance, enslaved them with a kiss and bound them to her will, made them hers so long as she needed them and then cast them aside or killed them. Seduction and betrayal was a specialty of hers, and everyone knew it. She was a predator, a femme fatale. Natalia Romanova. Black Widow.

But Steve called her Natasha. And she liked that.

She liked that he was so innocent and so naïve and so oblivious. She liked that he didn't know much about this strange world in which he found himself because that empowered her but it did so in a good way. She liked that she spent so much time with him, even if it was in foxholes and safe houses and in danger, because that time that was _hers_ and no one else's. She liked how his eyes shone in flustered desire when she flirted with him. Flirting with him was quickly becoming a guilty pleasure. She liked that she felt good with him, like he treated her as an equal and maybe even a friend. With him, she didn't need to be anything or anyone else.

Still, he was nothing like her. He was all parts valor and integrity and nobility. He was upfront about who he was and what he thought was right and how far he would go to protect that. He was easy to read, easy to understand. Simple and serious and straightforward. She wasn't. He was a soldier, and she was a spy. He was built from greatness and truth, and she was made of so many lies and covers that sometimes even she wasn't sure who she was underneath it all. He killed to protect the innocent, and she murdered because she didn't know how to do anything else. They were so different that sometimes she wondered if her heart wasn't lying to her.

And it wasn't just that he wasn't like her. He wasn't like _any_ of them. Not the bad men she killed or the stupid men she manipulated. Not Fury or Hill or Rumlow or any agent of SHIELD. Not even like Stark or Banner. Steve was like this stubborn hold-out, blindly fighting for a better world while simply refusing to accept what the world had become. She knew he wasn't as innocent and naïve as she liked to think he was or as most people assumed he was. He'd led the US and the Allies and SSR through World War II, fighting the worst of Nazi Germany and HYDRA, facing down all of their atrocities. And he was black ops now, and better at it than almost anyone she'd known. He'd killed people, saved people from terrible fates, seen horrible things perpetrated by evil men. He wielded his shield as a weapon as much as a means to defend. She was sure Rogers had his demons, but they were demons of other people's making, not his own. Bad things that had been done _to _him, not bad things that he'd done. She didn't think he was capable of ever doing something to hurt someone else unless that someone else was well-defined and validated as evil. Even Clint, who was the most decent man Natasha had ever known, still had his demons, the dark places in his soul that she knew were there but he never showed, not even to her. They'd been on and off again ever since Clint had rescued her from the KGB and brought her into SHIELD. Friends with benefits and lovers. Clint was the closest thing to a confidant she'd ever had. She trusted him when she didn't trust anyone else because he _knew_ her. He knew what she had been, who she had killed and when and how and why. He knew her dark secrets without her ever having to divulge them because they were the same as his. They were both damaged, both broken from the terrible things they'd done and the dark people they'd allowed themselves to become. Steve was unequivocally _good_, light and truth and the American way. Clint was familiar and safe and he understood the world and what it really was.

Steve didn't _know_ her, not really. She was afraid that if he did, if he learned about her lies and demons, he would disapprove of her. She'd never cared what someone else thought of her before, but she did with him no matter how ardently she wanted to convince herself otherwise. He was making her soft and weak and _vulnerable_. He was stripping away all of her defenses and cutting to her heart. She had contemplated asking Fury to reassign her, but she knew she couldn't manufacture a reason the Director would understand let alone accept, and deep down inside she didn't want to be away from Steve. They worked well together, extremely well in fact, as well as she had ever worked with Barton or Coulson. The minute they'd parted company last night with a friendly smile and a murmur of congratulations for a mission accomplished, she'd felt lonely and empty. She was attracted to him, and she couldn't deny it. She wanted to know him, the man behind the shield. She wanted him to know her, even if that risked his disgust. And it really frightened her.

"Natasha?"

His concerned call pulled her from her thoughts. She rolled her eyes at herself, glad he couldn't see her. She couldn't remember the last time she'd lost track of a conversation. He appeared down the hall, dressed in jeans and dark gray t-shirt and gray sneakers, hair brushed and all traces of sleep gone from his bright eyes. He looked so damn normal that it was almost easy to forget the man before her was Captain America, a living legend and war hero and leader of the Avengers. Of course, the abs and pecs and biceps and _everything_ else that showed through that shirt were enough of a reminder. "You okay?"

His question irritated her. She thought of those letters and that pang of jealousy. It wasn't rational. It was _pathetic_. "Fine, Rogers."

He looked a little off-put by her curt response. "Fury's not telling us everything," he said.

"That's part of his job," she coldly reminded him. He was so damn naïve. "If you wanted trust you should've stayed in the army. Let's go."

She was angrier at herself than at him, but it was always easier to lie than to tell the truth.

* * *

SHIELD never slept. Always its watchful eye was vigilant, monitoring the world and all of the monsters within it that stirred in the shadows. Its vast intelligence network was constantly gathering data and analyzing trends and predicting outcomes. It was fostered by the best money could buy: bleeding-edge military technology, state-of-the-art computer systems, top-of-the-line research facilities. The World Security Council had huge coffers and even bigger ambitions. Thousands of agents, technicians, doctors, researchers, administrators, and military personnel worked for the organization. It interfaced with other allied agencies all over the globe, from the United States to Great Britain to Japan to Australia. It had the power and reach to strike down violent regimes in the Middle East, insurgents in South America, militant factions in the Balkans, and terrorist groups just about anywhere in the world. It was not its policy, however, to involve itself in political or territorial disputes. SHIELD was meant to protect world security, not mediate conflicts between nations.

So Natasha was somewhat surprised to see a map of Crimea plastered all over the displays in one of the Triskelion's many situation rooms. Rumlow was already there, leaning against the gleaming conference table with his muscular arms folded over his chest. He was dressed in black. Natasha didn't think she'd ever seen him wearing anything other than combat gear, like he was always switched on and ready for a fight. "Romanoff," he said in greeting, standing a bit straighter. He nodded at Steve, who walked in behind Natasha. "Cap."

"Rumlow," Steve said. They had both changed into their customary uniforms, and Steve's shield was strapped to his back. "How's Hughes?"

Rumlow grinned a little. "He'll be fine. Flesh wound. He's damn well embarrassed." Hughes had been stabbed in the hand during the skirmish in Iran, the one and only casualty of the entire mission. Rumlow turned and lowered himself into one of the chairs that surrounded the conference table. "I take it we need to brush up on our Russian. Shouldn't be much of a problem for you, though. Right, Romanoff? Back to the Motherland." Natasha narrowed her eyes into an icy glare. "How do you say 'stand down' in Russian, anyway?"

Natasha didn't care much for Rumlow. He was a damn good soldier, but everything with him seemed forced and less than sincere. And he pushed buttons. For being such a hard-ass, he sure got a lot of joy out of watching people squirm. She _never_ squirmed. "Putting down an uprising is a little beneath us," she commented, staring at the map. Something worried her about this.

"Which is exactly why we're not getting involved." Fury's familiar voice drew their attention as the Director strolled quickly into the situation room. Hill and Sitwell were with him, the latter carrying a few tablets that he was furiously updating. "Agents. Captain."

"Director," Steve responded. He sat beside Natasha, propping his shield up against his chair.

Fury appraised his agents sternly. Another leader might have thanked them for coming in the middle of night, particularly after returning from another mission mere hours before, but Fury was Fury. Pleasantries were never necessary. He sat at the head of the table. Sitwell was next to him, setting his tablet to the gleaming surface. Hill leaned over the controls near the head of the table and the room lights dimmed slightly. A slew of videos and pictures suddenly covered the large screens surrounding them. "The situation in Ukraine is degrading faster than anyone anticipated. They're on the verge of a full scale revolution." Images of riots and violence splayed before them, of police struggling to hold back furious citizens with shields and batons and tear gas. People were shouting furiously. Buildings were burning. "Sources in the Ukranian government are expecting that President Yurchenko will be ousted. Once that happens, it'll be chaos."

"NATO peacekeepers?" Steve asked. Of course he was concerned with the humanitarian side of it.

"Their actions at this point would only escalate the situation," Hill answered. "Ukraine is a sovereign nation, and nobody seems certain of how to handle this without inciting further tensions with Russia. President Ellis and Prime Minister Wallace from the UK are meeting this week with other European nations to discuss the actions available to them to quell the violence, but from what our sources are saying it doesn't seem likely than any military or even diplomatic action will be taken. The civil unrest in Kiev is escalating, but it could lead to a better democracy, which is of course something the US and its allies are interested in. I don't think people are going to quiet down this time. The government is infirm and corrupt. It's really only a matter of time."

What she left unspoken was fairly obvious. The situation was intractable, and even if it could be resolved peacefully, SHIELD wasn't going to solve it. Steve leaned back in his chair, displeased if the firm set of his jaw and the hard look in his eyes was any indication. Natasha spoke, trying to change the subject before Captain America demanded they do something futile in order to save the innocents that were beyond their aid. "If the Council is not going to mediate the situation, then something else must interest them."

Hill looked at her. She knew the other woman well enough to detect just the smallest hint of gratitude in her blue eyes. "We received a communique last night from this man, Victor Petrovich." A banal, pudgy face appeared on the monitor. "He's Russian but has served in the Ukranian government as a minister of foreign affairs for the last decade or so. He suspects that the civilian unrest is, in part, being instigated by the Russian government."

"I thought Yurchenko was allied with the Russians," Rumlow said. "Moscow's denounced the revolution. What reason do they have to help it?"

Sitwell cocked an eyebrow. "It gets more complicated the deeper you dig." He dragged his forefinger along his tablet, and with a flick of his wrist, he sent more data to the displays. "Petrovich claims that this man, General Yuri Brushov, seems to be involved in funneling money and weapons to the revolution. Significant support for the pro-Russian movement in Crimea is also coming from Moscow itself on some unofficial lines."

"The Russians would like nothing more than to take Crimea as a province," Hill added. "Annexing Crimea seems a logical step when Ukraine falls apart, which makes all the popularity they're drumming up among the locals make sense. It also makes sense that they are also shunting money to the revolution. The Ukranian government collapsing creates an ideal situation to invade Crimea, and if the population there is willing, it doesn't look that violent or out of the ordinary."

"So why would Petrovich contact us if SHIELD has no intention of involving itself in a regional dispute?" Steve asked.

"Our thoughts exactly, Captain." The screen switched to old pictures of Petrovich with another man. They were grainy despite digital enhancement. "Petrovich was once a friend of Brushov; they both served in the KGB together until the Soviet Union fell. According to Petrovich, he worked under Brushov on numerous secret projects, including various unsuccessful efforts to recreate the super soldier serum."

Steve's eyes narrowed at that and settled on Fury. He looked irritated, as if he'd suddenly realized he'd been lied to yet again. "How many of these failed attempts to recreate the serum are there?"

It might have been a rhetorical question, but Natasha sincerely doubted it. Fury looked at him. There was defeat in his face. And regret. "A lot."

The scowl of frustration and displeasure grew tighter on Rogers' normally calm face. "How do you know they were unsuccessful?" he questioned.

"Petrovich claimed none of their subjects survived the procedures," Sitwell answered. On the monitors appeared numerous old files, likely scanned from papers that dated back to the late 1980s and the early 1990s all the way up to 2000. They were originally typed in Russian, but the computer was translating them. Phrases like "fatality" and "failure" marked the picture of every Russian "volunteer" that flashed by. There were dozens and dozens of them. Sitwell folded his hands before him on the table. "But, in answer to your question, we can't verify that they failed with any certainty. Petrovich fled the USSR when it fell apart and sought political asylum. He claims Brushov lost funding and support from the government, but he was uncertain whether or not he ever stopped his work or just found a different way of getting it done."

"This the most recent picture of Brushov we have on file," Hill said. It was a photo of an older man with a coarse, salt-and-pepper beard covering a boxy chin. His hair was the same thick gray, brushed back from a high, wide brow. A nasty looking scar ran down his face from his forehead to his right cheek, and his eyes were black and beady. There was nothing comely or appealing or friendly about him. He was the picture of cruelty and evil.

Natasha looked away. It wasn't a voluntary movement; instead, a sort of primal reaction _forced_ her eyes off that forbidding picture. It happened so quickly that she hadn't been able to stifle it or control it. Her hands clenched ever so slightly against the shudder crawling up her back, and her gooseflesh prickled. She felt cold. She felt _frightened_. She knew Rogers had noticed, his concerned eyes darting in her direction, but she didn't look at him, either. She couldn't.

Hill was still talking. "Unfortunately these files that Petrovich sent us aren't proving as useful as we'd hoped. A lot of the sensitive information was redacted by the Soviets."

Rumlow was losing his patience with their story. "So this Brushov guy is trying to stage some sort of coup in Ukraine so that Russia has a reason to take Crimea. For what? Money? Political favors from the higher-ups in the Russian government?"

"That's what we need to find out," Hill answered.

"There are over a hundred subject files in the dossier Petrovich supplied," Sitwell said. The computer was still going through them, pictures of healthy young men flashing by in a line with dates marked in red and the word "FATALITY" stamped across their faces. Natasha tried not to watch too carefully, afraid of recognizing anyone. "Whatever they were trying was obviously dangerous and faulty. Still, there's been a lot of progress in biochemical engineering in the last twenty years. Doctor Banner's work. Extremis. The Centipede Program. If they are trying something again–"

"The serum can't be recreated," Steve said.

"The serum they used on _you_ can't be recreated," Fury corrected. "But I can think of plenty of ways to make bad men worse." Steve clenched his teeth, his jaw flexing, and shook his head slightly in aggravation. Fury sighed and cut to the chase. "This is all conjecture, and it could be nothing. But if it's not, it needs to be stopped now. If they think they're going to use this rebellion in the Ukraine as a front to create their own army of super soldiers, they have another think coming."

Those images kept flying across the screen, and Brushov kept glaring. It was all Natasha could do to stay still.

After a silent moment, Steve shifted slightly in his seat. He looked away from the monitors and settled a level gaze on Fury. "What is it you want me to do?"

Hill took that as an affirmative that he was on board. Everything concerning Rogers was a bit awkward. Captain America was not quite an agent of SHIELD, but he was their ally. He worked with them but not necessarily for them. Nobody besides Fury, not even the Level 8 and Level 9 agents like Natasha and Hill, could truly give him orders. He didn't have to accept the missions they offered him; that was the deal he had struck with Fury when the Director had asked for his help after the Battle of New York. If he was going to refuse a task, they didn't have the means or power to coerce or force him. However, he was nothing if not a good soldier. And it was pretty damn obvious why Fury was coming to him. Just one enemy super soldier was a serious threat. More than one? Only Captain America could stand toe to toe with something like that.

The disturbing train of the dead winked away on the monitors, and a new collection of data took its place. Satellite images and copies of bank statements and shipping ledgers written in Cyrillic were shown, the computer sorting and translating the documents as they appeared. "Petrovich indicated that Brushov burned a lot of bridges in Moscow during his time with the KBG and the Soviet Army. He doesn't think he'd be able to garner enough support to recreate any of his programs in Russia itself, hence the interest in Crimea. Loosely controlled by an inept government. The cover of Russian support but the freedom of a sovereign country."

"Anything involving a program with this number of subjects would carry a hefty price tag," Steve said.

Sitwell nodded and said, "We've had the analysts at the Hub picking apart the data the last few hours. Money transfers. There were a few hits in Ukraine that they were able to trace back through bogus banks and known money launderers to this man: Grigoriy Garanin."

"_Bankir_," Natasha breathed. All eyes in the room turned to her. Fury leaned back in his chair slightly. Natasha gathered herself. "They call him 'The Banker'. He's ex-KGB, kicked out for going rogue and freelancing KGB services while keeping the proceeds. He's got deep pockets and is tied to terrorist and hostile factions across the globe." She knew him well. He'd financed dozens of assassinations on behalf of his clients. She'd often received compensation from him.

Hill nodded. "Garanin and Brushov go way back, it seems. Like Agent Romanoff said, Garanin has ties to some pretty nasty people." The list showed itself in all of its ugliness. These were some of the worst names in terrorism, in biochemical warfare and drug running and violent oppression. Al Qaeda and Hezbollah and connections to North Korea. The Ten Rings. Colonel Ling, a scientist who was known to experiment on prisoners. The remnants of Aldrich Killian's empire. Ian Quinn.

"The money trail leads to a half a dozen spots spread throughout Kiev. There is only one, however, in Crimea. Whatever it is, it must be tied to whatever Brushov's after." Hill tapped a few controls on the conference table. A red dot flashed on the map of Crimea, and the computer zoomed in on Yalta where it sat on the north coast of the Black Sea. "This hospital outside of Yalta has received a huge amount of money from 'anonymous donors' over the last year. According to public records, these funds were allotted for some sort of massive improvement to the hospital, but no permits have been acquired and no plans have been filed." Hill coolly raised an eyebrow. "My guess is there's a lot more to this place than meets the eye."

The hospital in question was located a little north of Yalta, at the foot of the nearby Crimean Mountains. It did make some sense. Yalta was a busy tourist spot. Lots of faces. People coming and going. Bustling activity could hide a multitude of sins.

Fury folded his hands together on the table. He glanced at Natasha for a brief moment, and she felt every muscle in her body clench in apprehension. It seemed only logical to seek her input; after all, she, too, had been borne from the Russian military and the KGB, and Fury knew that. Fury knew more than that. But thankfully he said nothing to her, instead shifting his gaze to Steve. "Rogers, you run point. I want you and Romanoff to sneak into this place and find out what it is we're dealing with. No exposure. We have no intel on what sort of security Brushov could have. Just get in, ascertain the level of threat this poses, and get out." Steve nodded, but it was more than obvious that he hadn't missed the Director's fleeting appraisal of Natasha. He was clearly worried and frustrated. "Rumlow, we've got local agents in the Balkans setting up a safe house and remote command center. You're to provide support and extraction and _that's it_. I don't need to remind you that the situation in Ukraine is tenuous at best; the slightest hint of a military operation could compromise it further and stir a damn hornet's nest. Relations between the West and Russia haven't been exactly stellar lately; I don't want to make that worse.

"If you find that these bastards are even _thinking _about restarting their work on the serum, I want you to get the hell out, get to the safe house, and report back to me immediately. We wait for approval from the Council on this one. I have no idea how deep the corruption runs into the Russian government, and without more evidence, an unauthorized strike could start a hell of a lot of trouble. Too much is at stake, and I don't want to risk an international crisis without our asses covered."

Steve eyes were suspicious and worried. "How do we know Petrovich is trustworthy? If he was working with Brushov before, there's no reason not to suspect he's doing it again."

Unfortunately Fury only supplied the answer they were all suspecting. "We don't," he admitted gravely, "which is why I'm sending in the best we have. If they're trying to build super soldiers, we will hit them hard and fast and make sure they never try again." To have their leader admit the possibility that this could be a ploy would normally be upsetting. But they were the best and had faced long and dismal odds and difficult situations countless times before. They didn't scare, and they didn't falter. And Fury knew it. "Clear? Then let's get it done."

The meeting broke up. Fury nodded once, pleased that his orders were being followed. But it was obvious he was tense and concerned, and not just because this mission carried huge international consequences should things go awry. Still, after a lingering glance to Hill and Rumlow and Steve and finally Natasha, he left. Natasha sat still, even as Rumlow passed behind her to speak with Agent Sitwell in a hushed tone. A sleek tablet was placed in front of her. "Mission intel and objectives," Hill supplied. "Flight in an hour." Then she, too, was gone.

Natasha glanced at that tablet, feeling more uncertain of herself than she had in years. Not since Loki had taken Clint. Eventually she grabbed the computer and pressed her thumb to the fingerprint scanner. It came on in a wink.

Brushov was glaring at her again.

It was ingrained in her not to, but she made herself look back.

"Nat?"

Steve stood beside her. She felt him more than saw him. She didn't turn to him or even acknowledge his presence. "You have anything to add to any of this?" he asked softly. He didn't even bother masking the concern coloring his tone. "Did you know Brushov?"

Damn him for being just about as perceptive as she was sometimes. But he wasn't nearly as good at lying. "No," she smoothly answered. She didn't elaborate with false information; that was always a sign that what someone was saying wasn't the truth.

She swiped that awful face away. There was an encrypted text message awaiting her. She knew it was from Fury. Steve was still, unmoving to her left, large and imposing and _worried_. It radiated off of him in huge, distressing waves. The awkward silence persisted until he had to ask. "Are you okay?"

Second time that morning, and she didn't have the patience to hide her ire. "Fine," she snapped. She was up and out of her chair in one smooth motion, grabbing that tablet.

She pretended not to see the hurt fracturing Steve's expression. He wasn't buying it. Frankly, neither was she. "Look, if there's something bothering you about this, now's the time–"

"Save it, Rogers." She was halfway to the door before she turned back to him. "I don't need you to take care of me."

That hurt look was quickly replaced by an angry frown. "This isn't about you. You heard Fury. This mission could be a trap, and if it is, I don't want to run into it blind. If you know something, tell me now."

"You're my partner, not my commanding officer." Steve opened his mouth to argue; Fury had put him in charge, and they both knew it. But she didn't give him the chance to say anything. "And there's nothing you need to know." The words came out harsher than she intended, but he was hurting her even if he didn't know it, and she wanted to hurt him back. Any fledgling feeling of friendship between them was dashed by the acid in her voice and the vicious, threatening glare she sent his way. Then she turned on her heel and stalked away, trying not to think. Not about Brushov and the dark things prodding insistently at her subconscious. Not about what she _knew _this mission was all about.

And certainly not about him. To hell with him. She was Black Widow. She didn't need anyone.

* * *

_Bankir – _The Banker.


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger, __Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, adult situations)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **All of my Russian is coming from Google Translate so take it with a grain of salt. :-) Enjoy!

**RED RAIN**

**3**

Steve was certain Natasha was lying to him. They'd been partners for a while, and given their line of work, this was hardly the first time he'd suspected she wasn't being honest with him. He wasn't stupid; he knew what she had been before she had come to SHIELD, and he knew what she was now. There had been times in the past when he'd realized she hadn't told him everything, as if a lie of omission was somehow better than an outright lie, but he'd rationalized it. They'd always gotten the job done without casualties, and if SHIELD had secret objectives for saving these hostages or stopping those terrorists, he tried not to be bothered about it. He knew that there were always multiple angles and tough choices and hidden agendas. He had fought in the bloodiest and biggest war of the 20th century; people always seemed to forget that. For him, it was always about protecting people and trying to do the right thing, but he accepted that others saw different means to those ends. As long as those means didn't hurt anyone or further evil ambitions, he tried to let it go. He wasn't this naïve kid from Brooklyn with a heart of gold and morals that withstood even the slightest dirt. He knew how the world was. As different as things were now, some things never changed.

All that aside, this time he knew something serious was bothering Natasha and it went far beyond the obvious. He was aware that she'd been rescued by Hawkeye from the KGB, and obviously this mission would take them back into that world. But there was more to it than that. The way she had averted her eyes from the picture of Brushov, the way her face had paled so slightly at all those images of Brushov's test subjects, the way she'd snapped at him… And it wasn't that she'd never been cold or withdrawn in the past. But this was visceral, raw and impulsive, self-defensive. Usually before missions she was relaxed, sometimes even chatty, wearing an easy smile and soft eyes. Not this time. He didn't know anything of her past, but he knew her well enough to see this was striking a nerve. She wasn't easy to read, and most of the time she was an enigma to him. But it was obvious she was terrified.

That worried him more than he wanted to admit.

The flight from DC to Crimea had been tense and silent. She had said nothing, offering no input and asking no questions, as Rumlow had gone over the mission details with the STRIKE Team. In her defense there wasn't much to discuss since so much of this mission depended on what they found in Yalta. But it wasn't for that reason that she was stiff and silent. It was hard for Steve to stand beside her and not notice that she radiated something very tense and very dark. It was hard to keep silent about it, though if he decided to confront her, it wouldn't be in front of the others. If he decided to confront her. When he did. His duties as the officer in charge required him to confront her. _Pathetic, Rogers._ Truth be told, even though he had at least six inches and a hundred pounds of muscle on her, he still found her icy wrath to be intimidating.

Rumlow worked through the maps on the tactical screen, and she watched with her fist to her chin dispassionately and seemingly uninterested. The safe house would be set up in a warehouse in Sevastopol on the southwest coast of Crimea. It was a little more than an hour's drive to Yalta from there and a matter of a few minutes via quinjet. From the safe house, Steve and Natasha would take a bus to Yalta posing as tourists. And from there they would hopefully manage an easy entrance into the hospital, assess the situation, and return. They would operate with strict radio silence, though both Steve and Natasha would carry a transponder that could immediately initiate a distress beacon if extraction became necessary.

It was simple enough. There were no publicly available floor plans for the hospital (which in and of itself was a sign the place wasn't entirely legitimate), and the computer folks at the Hub hadn't been able to find any through more unofficial channels. That left satellite imaging, which the computers had analyzed and used to predict an internal layout. Steve had looked it over, quickly committing it to memory. He didn't see anything that obviously looked like a lab of the size necessary to run such a complicated experiment on so many people, but without knowing the floor plans more exactly, it was difficult to tell. Infrared scans weren't providing the resolution for which they'd hoped, but there was some sort of sizeable installation beneath the hospital. The heat signature was large enough to suggest something under there was requiring a fair amount of power. There was no more data available, but all of the evidence pointed to the basement as a good place to start their search.

They landed in Sevastopol. Rumlow immediately coordinated with the SHIELD agents waiting, directing the team to prepare the safe house with all the equipment they would need to be ready to launch a rescue or an assault at a moment's notice. Steve quickly changed into the civilian clothes that were provided for him, a pair of khaki shorts and a short-sleeve blue shirt and sneakers and sunglasses. He'd never really done anything like this before; he was used to fighting in a uniform, to leading assault teams and planning battle strategies and charging into the fray. Sneaking around wasn't really his style. And he wasn't thrilled with the idea of leaving his shield behind, but there was absolutely no way of remaining inconspicuous carrying around a symbol so internationally recognizable. Natasha emerged from the back room of the warehouse, dressed in shorts that cut off high on her thighs and hung low on her hips. She wore a black tank top and a gray sweater and had her hair pulled back. She looked disarming, like a beautiful young woman on vacation, but he could only see the raw edges of fear in her eyes.

One of the SHIELD agents attached to their operation from the field office in Rome provided them both with fake US passports, complete with fake names, and a few thousand dollars. Rumlow handed them each a watch, seemingly simple and innocuous and expensive, but holding down the tiny button on the side of the watch face would call for extraction. It was their only means of communication with their support in Sevastopol. Steve wrapped the silver links around his wrist and prayed they wouldn't have to use it. _Get in. Get the information. Get out. Report to Fury._ Simple enough.

Now they were riding a bus that was winding and meandering its way along the Crimean coastline. The Black Sea was below and the Crimean Mountains rose on the other side, steep cliffs and sharp, brown precipices. The afternoon was warm, the air heavy and humid and hazy. The sky was bright and blue. It was the perfect day for a scenic drive as part of a relaxing vacation in one of the most beautiful places in the world. That was their cover story, anyway, two young Americans on a romantic getaway through Europe. Steve wasn't sure about the "romantic" part of it, as Natasha was making a rather pointed effort to _not_ look at him as they sat stiffly beside each other the bus. Warm air that smelled of the sea flowed through the open window to his left, caressing her hair away from flawless skin. The bus hit another rut in the road, bouncing its occupants roughly, and his hand brushed against her bare leg. She didn't move, didn't even blink. "Sorry."

She didn't answer. He was trying not to, but he stared at her all the same, wondering what the hell was going on with her. He knew he wasn't the best with women; before he'd become Captain America, he'd been so short and skinny and weak that most girls had completely ignored him. His friend Bucky had always been the looker and charmer, and Steve had been his incapable, clumsy, and awkward wingman. Bucky had tried to educate him in the finer points of sweeping a girl off her feet, but he'd been downright hopeless and frankly uninterested. There had been a war going on.

But then he'd met Peggy Carter, and everything had changed.

She'd seen past his small, sickly exterior. She'd been the first woman to ever look upon him with anything other than pity or disgust. She'd seen _him_. And after Project: Rebirth, she'd seen him still. He had been Steve Rogers to her, not Captain America, a hero but not because he was stronger and faster and smarter than anyone. And he had stayed that way to her all through the war. He'd been in love with her from the first moment he saw her at Camp Lehigh giving the recruits for the super soldier program a good once-over and a proper dressing-down. He could still feel the one sweet kiss they'd shared had been before he'd jumped onto the plane that would later become his tomb, the heat of her lips against his a ghost that haunted and tormented his dreams. Everything they could have had had been ripped from them both. He had been lost for seventy years in an icy hell. She had grieved and moved on and lived her life without him.

Now he was back and she was an old woman. He'd gone to see her a few times, but her mind and her memory weren't as sharp as they used to be. Watching her wither before his eyes in the twilight of her life was so damn painful, but it was something he needed to do, the least he could do for her. Everything they should have been lingered between them, and that was a pain that was unsatisfied and swollen with unshed tears. She'd given him a stack of letters she'd written to him over the years a few months ago, dozens and dozens of them, but he really hadn't been able to make himself read them. He wasn't afraid of much anymore, having faced the worst of the Nazis and HYDRA, having slowly and painfully frozen to death, having fought off an invasion of brutal aliens under the control of a deranged god. But he was terrified of the heartbreak reading those letters would cause. Reading them meant it was over, and even though he _knew_ it was, a part of his heart just wasn't ready to accept it. Peggy's face, her dark hair and twinkling, brown eyes and full, red lips… That was the only thing he saw when he closed his eyes. To him, their date was only recently missed, not seven decades late. To him, she was still young and vibrant and beautiful, ordering troops about like she'd been born to do it, managing SSR and leading the Howling Commandos to victory. But that Peggy, the one he'd known and loved, was long gone. The finality seemed too much to bear.

So he hadn't moved on, hadn't even tried to. He wasn't interested in replacing her. He had a hundred reasons not to. His heart was still so battered and tender. He was too busy. His life was too dangerous. He was too shy and too awkward, even if he was Captain America. He didn't understand this new world and all of its convoluted technologies and pop culture references and social networking machines. It was impossible to find someone with _anything_ in common with him. But when he made himself admit it, there was just one reason he hadn't looked for anyone else: he couldn't let Peggy go.

Natasha, though… He hadn't been looking for her. He'd simply found her, and they'd fallen into this partnership they had. After the Battle of New York, the Avengers had gone their separate ways. Fury had immediately come to him to ask if he'd join SHIELD. It was only because Peggy had built SHIELD that he agreed to operate as one of their agents. Right away Fury had assigned him to work with Romanoff. Natasha was somehow… _familiar_ to him. He realized a few days into their first mission together that it was because she reminded him of Peggy. Beautiful. Fiery. Stubborn. Commanding and powerful and cunning. But there was more to Natasha, a hell of a lot more, that he didn't understand. She sometimes smiled at him in a way that cut right through to his desires but then gave him the cold shoulder just as randomly. She invited him in with her soft words and alluring eyes but then pushed him away when he got too close. She was damaged, and he knew it. He'd heard the rumors. She was a liar and a murderer and a seductress. But even that didn't stop him from caring about her. A lot. Probably too much, because when it came down to it, they were too fundamentally different. And he didn't know how to help her or if she even wanted his help.

This was a perfect case in point. "Stop staring at me," she lowly warned, not moving or even twitching.

Steve clenched his fists ever so slightly on his knees and flung his gaze angrily out the window. A tense moment of silence escaped, and the walls between them felt impenetrable. He could do without her attitude. "You know, we can't make this work if you won't even look at me. Who the hell is gonna believe we're having a good time together?"

She turned and smiled, the gesture dripping in false affection, and the next thing he knew she was leaning over and slanting her mouth over his. Steve almost recoiled, taken completely by surprise, as she deepened the kiss and leaned into his lap. His question was muffled by her lips as wove her hand into his hair and practically devoured him. Then she pulled away. Her eyes were filled with icy condescension. "That convincing enough for you?"

He didn't know what it was. Anger and hurt flashed through him, not quite enough to douse his arousal. "What's the matter with you?" he hissed.

She didn't answer, but the tension left her on a long breath. She seemed bent and weary, worn with worry. Scared again. Uncertain of herself. Maybe even ashamed of herself, but not enough to apologize or admit it. He'd never seen her like this before. Her shoulders relaxed further, though her face didn't, and she leaned into him. He stiffened, not sure of what she wanted. "Just put your arm around me," she ordered quietly, "and pretend."

He hesitated. If Brushov did have spies littered around Crimea reporting back to him, this display of random moodiness was only going to confuse them. Probably about as much as it was confusing him. But he did as he was told, and she sank into his side, laying a hand on his leg. His anger faded as the bus bounced and jolted again. "Nat," he said softly.

Her hand tightened on his leg. She spoke before he could say anything more. "Don't worry about me. I can do this," she said against his shoulder. He wanted to look down at her because he didn't know what to think or if he could believe her and maybe her face would betray something of the truth. He didn't know if she was assuring him or herself. She'd never assured anyone of anything before. "Let's just get it done."

Steve swallowed thickly and looked outside at the blur of rocks and trees. To anyone watching, they appeared as two young lovers on vacation. But it was a cover. She was tense and uncertain, and so was he. He wanted to ask her again to tell him the truth about what was bothering her. He wanted to ask her to confide in him, both as her captain and as her friend. But he didn't because he knew she wouldn't. She was rattled enough, and he wasn't that brave. Her hand remained tight on his leg, not moving, and the touch of her fingers to his skin was somehow both comforting and electrifying. He held her close, his own fingers sliding up and down her back. He did it nervously at first and almost froze when she shifted, but she only pillowed her head deeper into his shoulder. He thought she'd pull away at the contact, but she didn't, so he continued, tracing his fingers lightly along her. He wasn't certain if she honestly wanted his solace or if she was acting for the sake of what they needed to do, for the sake of what she needed to be to get this done.

He didn't know her well enough to know the difference.

Whatever was waiting for them, he hoped they could get through it. Nothing of her normal poise or confidence seemed intact. It was fleeting, wavering. He could only pray she would keep it together, that whatever was bothering her wouldn't endanger the success of the mission.

Or worse.

* * *

The bus deposited them at the end of a cobblestone street in the middle of a market area that overlooked the bay. The sign for the hospital posted on the corner pointed north up the road where it rose into the bluffs. The day was pristine and warm under a golden afternoon sun, and the market was flooded with merchants and tourists. Down below the beaches were full, white sand caressed by the gentle waves of a slate gray ocean. Steve looked around at the swanky restaurants and palatial hotels. This was not the same Yalta that had been under German occupation during the War. It was busy and lively.

Natasha stood next to him. She looked cool and confident. The return of her composure was a welcome sight. "Nice and slow," she said. She reached down and took his hand. "Like we have all the time in the world."

Steve drew a deep breath, summoning some measure of patience. He glanced around suspiciously even though he knew he shouldn't. He'd been tracked by his fair share of spies, snipers, and enemy agents. The market was so crowded, however, that it was impossible to keep track of everyone. Perhaps it was only paranoia, but the dark pinch of foreboding in his stomach grew sharper. They couldn't afford to draw attention to themselves, and at least the time they spent wandering through the market would give them a chance to keep an eye on whoever was keeping an eye on them.

He'd never been a good actor or a liar, so pretending to be someone else, a guy wasting time and money with his girlfriend on a getaway, didn't come naturally to him. But he followed Natasha's lead as she pulled him through the marketplace, a dazzling smile on her lips and her eyes alight with happiness. He was downright shocked at how easily she faked it, and in comparison his awkward grins and mumbled responses were tragically out of place. She humored a few merchants trying to sell her jewelry, browsing their wares and laughing when they flattered her, responding with sloppy, broken Russian so convincingly that even he forgot she was fluent. She smiled sweetly and laughed at their jokes and excitedly showed him what she found as they slowly made their way through the bustling square. Steve tried to play his part of the uninterested boyfriend; the impatience was at least not far from the truth.

It seemed to take forever, but they worked their way through the street vendors and up the hill. Ahead there were fountains, beautiful parks, and statues that other tourists were admiring. She took his hand again and clung to his arm. Steve released a slow breath as they ambled toward the hospital. The sun was beginning to set, thankfully easing the heat of the day, spreading gold and yellow and red in the western sky. "No obvious eyes in the crowd," she softly declared.

She still impressed him sometimes, even after all these months. She'd flawlessly worked the crowd over while fluidly gliding through it, keeping up their ruse without so much as a hint of subterfuge. "No," he agreed. She was smiling, looking tired and happy and in love. "I don't know how you do this all the time."

He felt more than saw her smile against his bicep where she had laid her head. "Some people are born liars." He fought the urge to look down on her. He didn't know if she was being facetious, but even if she was, what she said didn't sit well with him.

The hospital was ahead. It was flanked by restaurants and chic shops and tourist attractions, so at least it wasn't terribly strange for them to be slowly making their way toward it. It was a fairly tall, white building, rectangular with a nicely landscaped park filled with pruned trees and bushes and flowers in front of it. Compared to many of the hospitals he'd seen and been in stateside, it was small and almost quaint. Another long building was at the tower's base, and a red sign proclaimed "medical center" across its front. Taxis and other cars rolled by on the street. Behind it, the mountains rose and the city ended. The whole place looked simple enough, a small establishment for the locals and tourists unfortunate enough to get sick or injured on vacation. It was non-threatening and pristine.

Steve averted his eyes at the risk of someone thinking he was staring again. "What's the plan?"

Natasha darted her eyes to him. "The direct route," she answered nonchalantly.

"Meaning?"

She seemed irritated with him and his lack of finesse with these sorts of things. "Meaning I am going to act like I am deathly ill and in excruciating, hysterical pain, and you are going to carry me in there frantically demanding that we see a doctor."

"What?"

"You heard me, Rogers. Sometimes the best way in is through the front door." They were just outside now, walking along the cul-de-sac, and Natasha glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. She didn't even give him a chance to prepare. She let out a hoarse cry and grabbed her midsection and stumbled. The ragged scream startled Steve, even though he knew it wasn't real, and he watched in not quite fake horror as Natasha collapsed to the cobblestone walk.

Onlookers came over immediately. Steve knelt beside her, trying his best to seem panicked. "What's wrong? Look at me. What – I need some help here!"

"My stomach…" Natasha moaned, and then she cried out again, nearly rolling on her side and curling into a fetal position.

Steve looped his arms under her knees and around her shoulders. He lifted her, remembering at the last second to make it seem like it was struggle. "Help!" he cried, tucking Natasha to his chest and running toward the hospital. _"Help!"_

He burst through the main doors and into a small waiting room. The people in the area regarded him with alarmed expressions as he barged inside. He prayed he appeared more lost and helpless and frantic than he felt. "My girlfriend… she's sick! I need help! Oh, God…"

Behind a gleaming counter, a nurse looked up. Her face fractured in concern. She spoke in Russian. _"__Chto sluchilos'? V chem problema ?"_

He had to remember that this person he was pretending to be didn't speak fluent Russian. "I don't understand," he gasped, shaking his head desperately. He looked down at Natasha's limp body clenched in his arms and tried to make his eyes water. "Please! She needs a doctor! I can pay whatever you need – just help her!"

Natasha cried out again, breathing in rough, harsh pants and holding her abdomen protectively. By now they were attracting the attention of every nurse around them and a few of the people who had been milling about the waiting room, and Steve was beginning to wonder if this hadn't been a really bad idea. "She just fell out there… Oh, my God… Her mom's gonna kill me…"

One of other nurses, a man with a severe face, looked to the woman. _"Ya dolzhen pozvonit' bezopasnosti ?__"_

_Damn it._ "I don't know what you're saying. I don't know Russian. Just help her. Please!"

Thankfully, the nurse shook her head. She spoke to him in surprisingly good English. "Sir, calm down. Tell us what happened."

He forced an expression of utter relief to his face. "We were just walking and she collapsed! Can't you see she's in pain? We need a doctor!"

One of the men behind them spat a particularly vile curse about Americans. Steve whirled on him, wondering how far he should take his indignant rage without blowing their chances. "Look, she's dying! Back off!"

"I'm sure she's not dying," the female nurse said.

The male nurse watched him warily. Steve tried his damnedest to conjure forth some tears. He was really bad at this. "What the hell's the matter with you people? Help me! Please!" Natasha cried and sobbed and made it look like she really was in agonizing pain. _"Please!_ _Poz – pozhaluysta!"_ He made a point of stumbling over his begging; hopefully it was convincing.

The female nurse looked uncertain, but Natasha's keening wail sealed the deal. _"Pomestite ikh v nomere 3 ."_

As she reached for a few papers, two other nurses, including the male one, came around the counter and gestured for Steve to follow. He gasped a relieved breath, readjusting Natasha in his arms like her weight was bothering him. "Thank you! Oh, my God – I don't know what happened. We were walking and all of the sudden she just went down. She said her stomach hurt earlier. Do you think she ate something bad?" He continued nervously rambling as they were quickly led down a corridor.

They entered an exam room. "Lay her," the nurse said.

Steve did as he was told, setting Natasha to the hospital bed. She rolled onto her side, her face locked in a horrible wince, moaning and whimpering. "Don't leave me, babe," she whined, reaching out a hand for Steve.

"I won't. I'm right here…" What? Doll? Honey? Darling? He had no idea. "Sweetie." He took her hand and smoothed her hair away from her forehead. "Just rest. They're gonna help you, I promise. We're getting you help."

The nurses went about taking Natasha's vital signs, measuring her blood pressure and asking Steve some questions in broken English about what she ate and when. Steve was a little concerned they'd be found out. It was one thing to act sick and another thing entirely to actually make it look real. But Natasha was a master at deception; she was even sweating as she writhed and shook and moaned. Steve offered up their passports when another nurse came with forms for him to fill out. Once they were finished with the initial paperwork and assessment, they stepped back outside the room. "Doctor comes soon," the male nurse promised. "Wait here." He looked warily at Steve one more time before leaving them, shutting the door behind him.

Natasha wasted no time, sitting up on the hospital bed and settling Steve with a cool look. "Sweetie?"

"What's the matter with that?" he asked indignantly as he stood from the tiny plastic chair beside the bed and set all the unfinished paperwork to the table next to him.

"Never again," she warned, sliding down. She smoothed her attire and with a single blink the suffering vacationer was gone and the SHIELD agent was back. "Come on."

They paused at the door, glancing back toward the nurses' desk. No one was watching them, so they slipped out into the hallway. They walked briskly but not so fast as to seem like they were in a hurry. A few nurses and doctors going about their business glanced their way, but nobody stopped them. "Down?" he asked softly.

"Seems logical," she answered just as quietly. "If you wanted to hide something, where would you put it?"

He couldn't argue with that. He had a photographic memory, so the few seconds he had spent looking at the predicted layout of the hospital was enough to produce a vivid image. He led her into the interior of the building, finding the computer model not that far from the truth. They passed the elevators, Steve directing them instead to the stairs. The hospital staff around them now seemed a little more perturbed by their presence, but Natasha lifted her chin and was unbothered by their glances. They ignored patient rooms and doctors' offices and labs filled with techs. Eventually they reached the stairwell, and Steve pushed the heavy door open just wide enough for Natasha before darting inside himself.

They bounded down the stairs silently. At the bottom there was a single solid door before them. This had to be below ground. The walls and the floor were solid, smooth cement. There was not a marking on them or a sign, and the door was painted green without any label or embellishment. Steve paused in front of it, staring at it doubtfully. He didn't like this. It seemed too obvious and too easy. "Open Sesame?" Natasha joked mirthlessly. She was on edge as well.

"I'd expect a door to a secret lab to… well, be more secret. And more secure."

"Maybe this isn't it," she surmised. She cocked an eyebrow at him.

Somehow he doubted that. He grabbed the handle of the door, but it wouldn't turn. One little twist was all it took to break the lock. "Subtle," she commented. He pushed open the door to reveal a short gray corridor. A single light recessed into the ceiling provided all illumination there was. It was tight and claustrophobic. At the other end there was another door, and this one was secured by a keypad. Natasha fished her cell phone out of the pocket of her sweater. She scanned the keypad with it, the sensors built into the computer quickly detecting which buttons had been pressed. She punched in the combination, and the locks released. They stepped through.

"Well, that was a lot of anticipation for nothing," Steve muttered disdainfully. They were standing in a storeroom, one that was loaded with cleaning supplies. Metal racks lined the walls, filled with jugs of disinfectants and detergents.

Natasha walked inside, her shoes clanking against the metal grating of the floor. About three feet in, the tone changed. She looked down. "Steve." She gestured him closer, and he crouched at her feet. "I think this might be your secret door." She stepped back, allowing him access to the grate. He felt along the edges, searching for a latch or something to release it. Finally his fingers brushed against a lever, and the grate came loose from the locks that secured it to the floor. He grabbed it and lifted and pushed it open.

It was silent. They both stared at the dark hole at their feet. There were steps that descended into shadows. Steve didn't scare often or easily; he'd seen much worse during the war in terms of creepy hide-outs and foreboding imagery. But the niggling voice of worry and doubt was getting louder by the second. "Ladies first?" he joked softly, trying to alleviate the heavy silence.

"Your mission," Natasha evenly responded. Her eyes never left the dark pit that had been unveiled.

Steve released the grate and sighed softly, planting his feet on the first step before dropping to a low crouch and peering into the shadows. It was another hallway entirely composed of cement with recessed lights dotting the way every five feet or so. It went down quite some distance with numerous of doors on either side and one door at the end. He glanced the other way and saw it went far back before turning to the left. It was empty and completely silent. He looked back up at Natasha and nodded. Then he silently walked down the steps and stood in the hall below.

It was cold and dank and the air smelled stale and musty. Natasha was beside him a moment later. She had her phone out. "This is where the heat signature is coming from," she whispered. She pointed ahead. Together they walked quietly toward the door. The silence was deep and unyielding. Steve kept a close eye on the hallway, but there was no sign of surveillance equipment. There was no sign of _anything_, in fact, just monotonous gray and locked doors. If anyone was there, or had been there recently, it wasn't obvious.

They reached the end of the hallway. Steve gripped the doorknob and gave it a turn. He opened the door only wide enough to glance inside. There was no indication of immediate danger, so he nodded to Natasha and let her walk through.

They stood in a lab of some sort. It wasn't very big and was sparsely lit. There was a bench along one wall filled with chemicals and vials and tools. A few computer monitors were mounted to the walls, dark and idle. Rolling chairs were pushed under the work area. There was a concentric glass barricade between this part of the room and the center, where a metal chair was reclined. An assortment of vicious looking tools hung over it, suspended from a main apparatus above. Lights shone down from there, and the steel seat was shining silver and gray against the shadows sweeping down from the walls. Another barricade blocked entrance to the other side of the room, where a second empty lab bench loaded with tools and computers ran the length of the wall. Everything looked abandoned, though recently so, and the atmosphere was tense and laden with something dark.

"Well, you wanted to know if they were building soldiers," Natasha said softly. He looked to her and found her expression unreadable. "I'd say this means 'yes'."

Steve didn't answer, stepping deeper inside the room toward that horrible looking seat. He stared at the glimmering steel, things that seemed a lifetime ago prodding at him. Walking into the lab where Project: Rebirth was about to commence. The eyes of everyone, soldiers and doctors and SSR agents and Doctor Erskine and Howard Stark and Peggy, settling on him. The bed on which he would lay, gleaming a sleek gray in the bright lights. _"It's a little big."_

"Bring back memories?" she asked.

He turned to look at her but found no anger on her face. "No," he said. "This is…"

"Sick? Deranged? Depraved?"

He looked over this steel contraption. There were restraints on the arms of the chair and at the feet. He narrowed his eyes, spying dried red coating the metal cuffs. "Evil."

The silence returned, thick and vacuous. Steve rounded the hellish chair, noticing more old blood on the implements over the chair. What the hell sort of monsters were they dealing with? Natasha walked along the lab bench, peering at the discarded tools and vials. "Hey, look at this." Steve finally tore his eyes away from the nightmare in front of him and joined Natasha on the other side of the glass barrier. She had a few print-outs in her hand. She handed them to Steve.

"Project: Red Guardian," he read from the top of the file. It was written in Russian, some sort of list of chemicals and procedures. Dates and times were in one column with an outcome written at the side. Most said "FAILURE". One didn't. It corresponded to a row that was labeled only with a series of numbers and letters. "Looks like they got something to work."

Natasha was already booting up one of the computers. She leaned over the lab bench, working feverishly at the keyboard in an attempt to infiltrate the system. Steve watched the images shift on the monitor as she searched through files. Eventually she got into a database of some sort. She entered in the alphanumeric label on the manifest. The computer worked for a second, scrolling through a huge manifest filled with similar codes before locating one. A row in the table was highlighted and blinking. "There isn't much information, just a location." She worked a moment more before another document appeared on the screen. It had an address and coordinates in longitude and latitude. "It's a warehouse north of Sokolyne. At least it's not far."

Steve heard something. It was distant and muffled. He stood very still, straining to listen. It sounded like barking. "I think we should get out of here," he said.

"I'm going to try and crack into this. Hold on."

"Nat…" He turned, looking around the room worriedly. They were as alone as they had been since they'd come in, but the shadows looked menacing. His heart sped and every muscle of his body turned taut. Something wasn't right.

"Patience, Rogers," Natasha chided. Her fingers were moving furiously, flying over the keyboard. "I think I can outsmart whoever wrote this. I just need a minute."

"I don't think we have a minute," he shortly retorted. That sound was growing louder and louder. Definitely dogs, and a lot of them. They sounded riled and angry. What the hell were dogs doing down here? Steve ran to the door where they had come in and peered down into the shadows. There was nothing. Still, the room seemed to close in around him, suffocating and crushing. The warning that had been whispering in his head was shrilly screaming that they _get the hell of out there_. "Natasha!"

"Got it," she said. "It's something called–"

Suddenly the door was flung open on the other side of the room. A half of dozen men dressed in combat gear charged inside. They raised their rifles. The glass barricade shook as bullets rammed into it. Steve was across the floor in two huge steps, grabbing Natasha from where she stood and yanking her down with him under the lab bench. The bench exploded as round after round tore into it, sending chemicals and papers and the remains of tools flying haphazardly. Steve held Natasha tighter, his arms wrapped protectively around her head, as he scooted both of them as close to the wall and the other door as possible. Whoever was attacking was intent on ripping the lab apart. The glass barricade had probably been built to withstand a large force battering it but not a veritable rain of automatic gunfire. It shattered.

Glass flew everywhere. Thankfully they were shielded from the worst of it. Their assailants paused a moment, likely trying to determine if their targets were still alive among all the wreckage. Steve reached out from under the bench and grabbed a particularly large, jagged piece of debris before flinging it toward one of the men. The man went down, gurgling and bleeding from his neck. "Go!" Steve yelled.

Natasha was on her feet before he even gave the order, sprinting across the room to the door through which they had come. Steve followed, pushing her along, as the men resumed firing. Bullets slammed into the floor behind them. They reached the door and thundered down the hallway. Ahead was the stairwell, but over the pounding of his heart and the roar of gunfire, Steve heard the whine of metal hinges rotating. _Damn it._ The shadows over the stairwell shifted. They had closed the grate in the storeroom above. "Keep going!"

Natasha ran down the corridor past the stairs in the other direction. Men were shouting roughly in Russian behind them, relaying orders, and the barking was getting louder and louder. An alarm wailed. This wasn't good. At the other end of the blackened hallway shadows shifted. Natasha skidded to a stop, Steve nearly plowing into her. He squinted, winded, and watched as the sable forms grew more distinct. More men, armed to the teeth with Kalashnikovs. Steve glanced wildly about, his mind racing, frantic to do something to get them out of this. There was a door to their left. Of course he had no idea what was on the other side, but it had to be better than this. One mighty kicked knocked it clear off its hinges. He grabbed Natasha's arm and yanked her inside.

Thank God this impulsive decision hadn't led them into a dead end. It was another hallway, this one better lit than the last. Natasha ran beside him, glancing back over her shoulder. The roar of gunfire should have been enough of an alert that they were being followed. The corridor turned left and then right and then forked at a T-intersection. Where the hell were they? This place was a damn maze! Steve was only certain of one thing: unless they found a way up, they were going to get caught.

They rounded another corner and Natasha pulled Steve flush along the cold concrete wall on the other side. Thankfully they'd put enough distance between them and their pursuers to take a moment to think. "Ideas?" he asked, slightly winded and more than slightly worried.

She shook her head, trying to catch her breath. "You're the man with the plan," she returned. "We're running in circles down here." Steve looked down to the left, but it was more of the same: a dark corridor filled with nondescript doors. The barking was much louder over here. "You think those dogs are–"

"Hopefully." He grabbed her arm and turned to the left, sprinting down the hallway and praying that maybe the dogs were closer to the surface, wherever they were. He trusted his ears to lead the way; his sense of hearing was much sharper than a normal man's, so keeping track of the raucous, feral noise wasn't difficult. They were at another T-intersection, and they paused, spending a few precious seconds listening.

"Right?" she asked.

"Yeah. Hurry."

They turned in that direction and started to run, but Steve stopped short, flinging his arm out across Natasha to hold her back. Ahead a young man stood. He was tall, as tall as Steve, and about as muscular. He had shortly cropped brown hair and a chiseled face that was locked in a wrathful expression. His eyes were dark brown and tinged with malice. The Russian star was blazoned across his chest, shining gold and red on a sea of black.

Beside Steve, Natasha stiffened. Her eyes immediately widened, her face draining of color. She was terrified, a haunted, hurt expression of shock claiming her pale face. She shook her head, her mouth hanging limply open. She looked like she wanted to speak, but no words came. Steve felt his blood turn to ice as he watched her flounder, shifting his eyes from his partner to this man standing before them.

"Alexei?" Natasha whispered.

The man's taut frown shattered into a murderous scowl, and he screamed in rage and balled his fist and swung powerfully at Natasha. She ducked, but her reflexes were sluggish. Steve moved faster, grabbing her arm and pulling her aside. The man's hand slammed into the wall, pounding through the cement and pulverizing it into a spray of gray dust. Steve watched, wide-eyed, as the man recovered much faster than he anticipated. The air rushed miserably out of his lungs when the man landed a powerful kick into his midriff. He flew back, the world of blur of shadows, and landed roughly far down the hall.

Steve gasped, dizzy and disoriented, before getting his lungs to breathe again. He brushed aside the pain and quickly leaned up. The man was glaring threateningly at Natasha, those dark eyes wild with rage, but she just stood there. She was lost. Vulnerable. "Natasha!" Steve cried. _"Natasha!"_

The man grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off the ground. She struggled desperately, clawing at his huge hand wrapped around her neck. The man slammed her into the wall, and her head snapped back. He choked her mercilessly. Steve gritted his teeth and swiftly got to his feet, charging back down the hallway in a blind panic to help her. He balled his hand into a fist and leapt and slammed it down into the other man's face. He staggered, but Steve didn't let up, sinking his other fist into the man's exposed abdomen and forcing him to drop Natasha. She collapsed to the floor, gasping and wheezing and coughing and scrambling away.

Steve blocked a return, sidestepping a flying fist and grabbing it. He trapped the arm against his chest, trying to leverage all his considerable strength into breaking it, but he couldn't. Sensing a losing effort, he rammed his elbow up into their attacker's jaw. The man's head snapped back, but only for a moment. Then he was right back to staring at them with that murderous glower.

Steve stepped back, stunned. Apparently _this_ was what Brushov had been building. "Get up!" he ordered Natasha, who was still suffering on the floor from being so nearly strangled. "Get out of here!" The man sneered, reaching for Steve, but he ducked. Pivoting on the ball of his left foot, he slammed his right into the other's chest, but the man caught his ankle and twisted. Pain shot up his foot to his knee and he spun in the air before falling to the floor. His own elbow was jabbed into his chest by the impact, driving the air from his lungs once more. Steve rolled, frantically twisting to his side as the blur of black and red above him descended. The man's knee drove into the floor where Steve's head had been, cracking the concrete like it was nothing.

Fear pulsed through him. They needed to get away. _Now._

Steve got his feet beneath him and sprung up with as much power and speed as he could, driving himself into the other man's midsection. He dug his feet into the floor, pushing back and _back_ with everything he had. The man was just surprised enough to not be ready for his attack, and he lost his balance. Steve kept going until he hit the wall behind them both at the end of the hallway. The man's head collided with a crack against the unforgiving concrete behind them. Steve leaned up and punched him once. Twice. It was enough to daze him, and he slumped for a second.

Steve turned and ran, barely avoiding the hand reaching for his foot. He grabbed Natasha by the arm. The dogs were still barking as they thundered away. His grip on her wrist was painfully tight, but he didn't loosen it for a second or even look behind him. His feet carried him because he couldn't think with the rush of adrenaline and terror. A few sharp turns led them finally to the source of all the barking. A huge room lay ahead. They staggered inside, gasping for breath.

"Steve…" Natasha whispered.

"Damn it," Steve hissed softly. This had been an _extremely_ bad idea.

There were two rows of cages, six per side, and each had a huge, black dog inside literally foaming at the mouth. Their fur was ratty, their eyes black and threatening. White teeth as sharp as razors were bared in snaps and growls and barks. They had been loud before, but now with the scent of prey right before them, they were deafening. They attacked their cages with abandon, slavering with the idea of a kill.

Steve glanced around, wondering what to do. They couldn't go back. There was a door on the other end of the kennel, a door that led to steps. Suddenly there was no choice. "Stay close to me," he quietly ordered. Natasha was dazed and hurt enough to actually acquiesce to that, nodding fearfully and tucking herself close to Steve's back. He tentatively took a step inside, darting his eyes between each row of cages, praying those doors could withstand the dogs' powerful assaults. He kept to the middle of the room as much as possible, walking on light feet. The dogs snarled. Their eyes had that same deranged look that that man's had. They had made it about halfway, and Steve momentarily entertained the thought that they could get out.

The door through which they had come slammed shut. A bell rang. Something buzzed. And the cage doors unlocked.

Steve pushed Natasha in front of him, running as fast as he could toward the steps. He wasn't fast enough. Once of the dogs leapt at him, snapping, and got its mouth around his forearm. He yelped, swinging his arm around and dislodging the dog and sending it flying. Another was quick to take its place, jumping onto his back. It bit at his neck, and the teeth tore flesh and sent sharp pain spiraling down his back and shoulder. He reached behind him, grabbing it by its own neck and flinging it away from him. Two more were on him almost instantly. Mouths opened and closed and claws scratched and eyes flashed with maniacal hunger. He didn't fall, shrugging them off. Natasha cried out as another tackled her, biting and driving her down. Steve kicked it in the chest with a sickening crunch and it fell to the side, whimpering. He batted one that jumped at them away, and it collided with another before falling dead to the floor.

He pulled Natasha to her feet and they ran to the stairs as fast possible, drawing every bit of speed and strength left in them. They bounded upward, taking the steps two at a time, the dogs barking and slavering behind them. Steve smelled fresh air before he saw light. There was another door before them. He charged in front of Natasha, driving his shoulder forward, praying to God that it opened. Hurt lanceted down his side as he rammed it, but it thankfully gave way.

They ran out into the fresh evening air, the pack of beasts still following them. Steve didn't know exactly where they were. It was some place lower than the hospital had been, maybe down the sloping mountainside that led to the beach. He sprinted over rocks and ruts in the ground, hearing the pack barking and panting behind them closer and closer with every second. Natasha gasped, stumbling, but kept her feet beneath her as they ran across the rocky ground. The rocky ground that abruptly _disappeared_ in front of them.

A good fifty feet below them the Black Sea churned. But they didn't hesitate.

Steve grabbed Natasha's hand and held it as tightly as he could as they jumped.

* * *

_Chto sluchilos'? V chem problema ? – _What's wrong? What's the problem?  
_Ya dolzhen pozvonit' bezopasnosti ? – _Should I call security?  
_Pozhaluysta – _please_.  
__Pomestite ikh v nomere 3 . – _Take them to exam room 3.


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger, __Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, adult situations)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing and following! So a quick warning on this chapter: there are some adult situations (ahem) coming up. Read at your own discretion :-D.

**RED RAIN**

**4**

They looked for a place to hide in the darker, slummier parts of Yalta. They moved along the streets quickly and quietly, trying not to draw attention to themselves, which wasn't easy given the fact they were both sopping wet. Climbing out of the ocean hadn't been a simple matter either since the beach had been loaded with people enjoying the sunset. The swimmers and sun-bathers and party-goers had watched, wide-eyed and slack-jawed and stupefied, as the two of them had emerged and staggered from the surf, gasping for breath. But they'd eluded capture, so that was enough of a victory considering how close they'd come to being caught or worse in that underground lab.

They walked side by side deeper into the city, making their way up the hills and away from the coast and the hospital as fast as possible. Steve was tense beside her, his eyes scanning everything around them, searching for any sign of danger. That was just as well because she felt so completely out of it, so fundamentally shaken, that she couldn't keep her wits about her. His stride was purposeful, powerful, driven to keep them safe. She was having a hard time keeping up. If she hadn't been so distraught, she might have chastised him for running when they should have been walking; anyone watching them would surely have been alerted by his determined, quick pace and darting glances. But she said nothing, and as she lagged, he reached behind and grabbed her wrist tight enough to hurt her and pulled her along.

A bus came rolling down the street ahead, its headlights cutting through the gray shadows of twilight that draped the buildings around them. The road was narrow, and they needed to get off it. Steve pulled her to the side near a tiny alley so they were well out of the way of the rumbling vehicle. He eyed the street suspiciously, monitoring each car and pedestrian that passed. It was improbable that they weren't being followed. Maybe they had been the entire time they'd been in Crimea, though she hadn't spotted any tails or lingering eyes. Still, this whole damn thing reeked of a setup. The thought was disturbing to say the least. She didn't know what was more upsetting: the fact that they had blundered dumbly into a trap, or the fact that she hadn't detected it.

No. The most disturbing thing was Alexei's face when he'd choked the life out of her.

Steve sighed in frustration. It wasn't easy to see, but she could tell he was shaken, too. "Let's call for extraction and get the hell out of here," he declared firmly.

She couldn't do that. "Not yet." Steve looked at her like she'd sprouted an additional head. Everything was so screwed up. She couldn't stop shaking. She needed to convince him not to leave. She needed time, time to think. Time to get herself under control. Time to sort this out and figure out how to proceed.

He didn't seem inclined to give it to her. She'd learned quickly during the missions they'd worked together that he was a soldier, through and through. He followed orders. He had the capacity to think outside the box, and he was damn brilliant when it came to planning and strategy, but he would always defer to authority unless there was a compelling reason not to. And authority had already dictated the mission objectives were complete.

At least his were. "We're here to get intel, which we got. You saw that guy." Natasha swallowed through a tight throat and looked away. "They're building soldiers, clear as day. Now we need to call for extraction and report to Fury."

She had to be firm. He was in charge, but she knew she could manipulate him if she needed to. She could ignore him, too, or leave him behind. She didn't want to (she knew she needed him) but she would. The sad thing was she knew the string she was about to pull would untie more than just their friendship. It would unravel things she hadn't thought about in years, parts of her heart that she'd thought long dead. It was frightening. It was even more frightening how simple it would be because what she wanted, what she needed to be for him, wasn't too far from the truth. Lying was always easiest when the truth was mixed in. "We need a place to crash," she softly insisted.

"Natasha, what–"

"Steve, please. I…" She moved closer to him, desperate for just a bit of comfort. She looked up into his eyes. So much of her was hurting. _Everything _was hurting. "Let's just rest for a minute. _Please_."

A long moment of silence passed between them. The sounds of cars driving down the road, of distant conversations, filled the evening. She held his gaze, trying to keep her body still, trying to seem far more certain of what she was suggesting than she truly felt. Eventually the tense set of his jaw and shoulders eased, and he sagged a little against the building behind them in submission. He sighed slowly. "Stay here."

He walked across the street, heading towards a dark and grungy-looking hotel on the other side. She watched him disappear inside before collapsing into the shadows of the alley, leaning against the rough bricks of the building beside her. Her head was pounding, her throat was throbbing incessantly, and she felt dizzy and weak. She closed her eyes, despite the fact that they could be in danger and she should really keep watch. It simply happened, an impulsive reaction to stress and trauma that was beyond her control. All of this felt beyond her control. As she stood there, things came out of the darkness. Brown eyes, deep and open and teeming with love. Hands running through her hair. Lips pressed to the side of her neck, teasing and tender. A soft voice against her ear. _"You're so beautiful. You're mine, aren't you? I love you. Please say you're mine. Please…"_

_ "You belong to me, Natalia. Kill him and come home."_

Brown eyes, violent and deranged and so familiar yet not. Gleeful and sadistic and murderous. Lips twisted in a cruel smile of anticipation. Hands tight around her throat. Squeezing the life out of her. Killing her.

"Nat?" Her eyes snapped open and she jolted off of the wall in shock, immediately falling into a defensive fighting stance. But it was only Steve. He caught the hand she was instinctively swinging toward him, his fingers tight and prohibitive but not painful as they grasped her wrist and stopped her. His brow creased in concern and confusion.

She floundered in embarrassment, furious at herself. God, her head was pounding. "Sorry," she quietly said. He let her go. His eyes settled on the bruises across her neck. It wasn't often that she felt exposed, but she did before him. She grabbed her sweater and pulled it tighter around her body, obscuring the black and blue marks and angry red welts.

Steve's tense, doubtful expression softened as he looked her over. "Come on," he said. "I got us a place."

They walked quickly across the street to the tiny hotel nestled between two buildings, one of which looked suspiciously like some sort of brothel. This area wasn't often frequented by the wealthy travelers and tourists, so she hoped the prospect of business would entice the innkeeper to keep his head down and his mouth shut. Steve said nothing about whether or not he was questioned or harassed, silently and firmly leading her down the sidewalk on the other side of the street a few steps before taking her inside the building. He bounded quietly up the steps two at a time, vigilant and wary. She followed on light feet. He found their room, producing a key from his pocket that he jabbed into the lock on the knob. One twist had the door open and them inside. Steve closed it and locked it behind him.

The room was nothing more a tiny, ugly box. A solitary bed hardly big enough for one person, let alone two, was pushed against the wall and dressed in ratty, unappealing bedding. There was an old, nicked armoire and an equally battered and brutalized desk. It was clean enough, though the carpet was torn and stained. A solitary, brown lamp beside the bed on a flimsy nightstand wearily shed light. There was one window that was dirty but did have a fairly decent view of the street below. No bathroom. All things considered, it wasn't so bad. She'd definitely been in worse.

She hardly had a moment to look around further, though, before Steve grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. "You need to talk to me," he said. His eyes were intense and demanding, his stature firm and unyielding. This was an order from her captain, from her commanding officer. There was no mistaking it. He towered over her. "_Now._"

Natasha clenched her jaw obstinately. Nobody demanded that of her. And if it were anyone else, she would have taught him a lesson he would not soon forget. But it was Steve, and the way he was staring at her cooled her fury. Her face must have betrayed her turmoil because his own taut expression softened and his fingers loosened. He released a slow breath. "I can't lead this mission effectively if you keep things from me. I need to know what we're up against. Whoever that was back there…" He sighed, frowning and holding her gaze even as she tried to look away. "You knew him."

She stood stock still. The flood of memories inside banged against the cage she'd erected around them years ago, battering it with ferocity she hadn't experienced in what seemed to be forever. She could let go. She could sink back into the past and let herself _know_ these things again, but that was a terrifying prospect. She was afraid her restraint would fail her. She was afraid, and he knew it. He was more perceptive than people gave him credit for. "Natasha." His tone was softer. He was making no effort to hide his concern, but his worry wasn't placating or pitying or disparaging. Normally she would have despised that and resented him for caring so openly, but she was so radically unsettled that she could only be grateful. "I'm your friend. At least, I'd like to think I am. You can talk to me." His hand slid up her arm to her shoulder, and he reached up with his other hand to touch her second shoulder as well. His hands seemed so large and capable and warm. So strong. She was safe with him, wasn't she? _You are._ "You knew Brushov. And you knew that soldier."

She suddenly couldn't stand the sight of him, so warm and earnest and sincere. She couldn't stand for him to look at her like that, open and imploring and compassionate. He was naïve, trusting to a fault, so stupidly moral and loyal that he actually thought airing out demons would aid in healing. He thought faith in others had a place in this world of spies and murder and espionage. He believed there was actually _good_ in her. He was a fool.

But as she gazed in his eyes, the promise of relief was so strong and palpable that she could almost make herself believe it, too. She'd never spoken of the memories pounding and beating on her heart. She'd never told anyone the truth, not any of it, not even the parts she was certain were real. No one knew, not even Clint. Seeing Brushov and Alexei had stirred the shadows within her, and now they were swirling like the dark, ominous clouds of an impending storm that would drown her in rain. She wasn't certain she had the courage to face that. Yet for the first time in a long time, she thought she wanted to. "I knew him," she admitted.

Just that simple utterance, that one statement, felt to be too much. Too much exposure. Too much of the truth. His touch became uncomfortable, and she pulled away. She turned to face the armoire, rubbing her arms against a sudden chill. Her sodden clothes felt cold and heavy, and every bruise and scratch throbbed and stung. She lost her nerve, her eyes burning as she blankly stared at the nicked and scratched lines and edges and contours of the furniture. Steve was silent and unmoving behind her, patiently waiting for her to continue. He wasn't going to demand or pressure her, and when she realized that, it comforted her enough to face the onslaught of memories. "Back when I was a girl, Brushov… _recruited_ me for a top secret program funded by the last remnants of the KGB called the Red Room. He took me off the streets in Stalingrad. I was a pick-pocket, stealing what I needed to survive, and I was good at it. One day I made the mistake of stealing from him. He could have killed me; people around there disappeared all the time, powerful and influential people, so a homeless orphan girl would have never been missed. But he was impressed by me and what I could do. He brought me into his home. He fed me, clothed me, taught me to read and write. Taught me how to fight and kill."

"_I can make you into something far more than you thought possible. More powerful than anyone. More dangerous. Faster. Stronger. Smarter. No longer just a street rat scrounging for food. Men all across the world will quiver before you." _She sighed, fighting to keep going. "I was one of many girls, but he took a special interest in me. I had a natural aptitude, a talent that couldn't be taught. He liked that. Only a select few of us made it past the initial lessons. The lessons that came after that…" Things came from the shadows. Screaming and pain and men slipping their dirty, hungry fingers into her mind. Confusion and terror. Violation. She closed herself to it and pushed it back. "They made us into tools for the Foreign Intelligence Service. I was particularly proficient at doing what they wanted."

"Assassinations," Steve clarified softly.

Natasha gave a short, irritated breath. "Brushov wanted an army of us, the best and deadliest spies in the world. He wanted to eliminate threats swiftly and completely. He wanted assassins that never tired, never fell, never missed. Never gave up until their targets were eliminated."

Brushov wanted killers that never felt, at least not anything beyond an insatiable hunger for power and domination and death. That voice slashed through her thoughts again. _"Never feel. You are Black Widow. Black Widow does not feel."_

"He came close but never close enough to what he wanted. In the end, I was the only one he had." Faces faded into the mist. Other girls. Dead. Long gone. "When the USSR collapsed, it was complete chaos, generals and KGB agents falling left and right, regimes and factions toppling as soon as they formed. Brushov saw the writing on the wall over the next few years, and then he took everything that remained of the Red Room to keep it to himself. He took me."

Steve was silent for a moment. She felt him breathing behind her. "What did he make you do?" His tone was tentative like he was afraid of the answer.

"Everything. Anything. I was thirteen years old." It was silent, but his sympathy was loud and unnerving. She didn't want it. She couldn't see him, but she pictured the pain in his eyes as plain as day. She could hear the pathetic condolences he wanted to offer before he even spoke. "Don't," she warned. She turned and settled him with a harsh glower. "Don't."

"Don't what?" he asked. He folded his muscular arms over his chest. His wet shirt clung to every muscle like a second skin. "Don't care? Or don't think it sounds like you didn't have a choice? Don't think it sounds like he forced you?"

She didn't answer. She didn't know what to say. There was no heat in his eyes, no judgment in his voice. No pity. She thought back to those hazy moments in her past, but she couldn't remember clearly. There were missions, guns smooth and powerful in her hands, the cold Russian winter biting her skin as she sighted down the scopes of sniper rifles, shadows that hid her lithe body and the threat she posed to her marks. But the emotions surrounding it all were gone, scraped away. Did she have a choice? She couldn't remember. There was only a voice. Brushov. _"You are beautiful, Natalia. Stunning. A rare flower. Men will forget themselves to have but a taste of you. Wrap them about your fingers. Squeeze them until they cry for mercy. They will beg you to seduce them, beg you to strangle them, beg you to destroy them. Kill them all."_

She wasn't sure anyone had forced her. "Brushov was my handler, and he sold my services to whoever would pay. Money. Weapons. Political favors. In the underworld the struggle for power was brutal, and he wanted nothing more than power. He was continually trying to revive the Red Room any way he could. He was willing to kill anyone to get it, and he did. Garanin financed his rise. I was their asset, a weapon they deployed against their enemies. I didn't care who I was sent to kill. I was the best at what I did, and I followed orders."

The silence that came was rife with shame. She looked away again, that awful chill climbing up from the small of her back. She folded her arms protectively over herself. A few years ago confessing that she'd been a hired gun, a murderer whose services came to the highest bidder, wouldn't have bothered her. Now saying it aloud, the words out there and undeniable and inerasable, hurt in a way she'd never anticipated. Saying it to him was even worse. Every ounce of self-preservation demanded she not continue in this tale because she didn't think she could stand his hate. But she went on. She had to. The cage door was open, and her demons were escaping. "I even learned to enjoy it."

Power. Lust. Domination and control. _Power._ _"You desire power, Natalia. I can give you that and so much more." _She'd been built, trained, programmed to lie and tempt and tease and kill. She'd never even considered that those things were wrong. In fact, she'd thrived on them. They were symbols of honor and accomplishment. A dead mark. A man she'd twisted to her own ends. A woman she'd bested at her own game. A terminated target. These were the things by which she and everyone else had measured her success.

"What changed you?" Steve asked. His tone was unreadable.

"When I was eighteen, Brushov was having a… _quarrel_ with a man named Andrei Shostakov. He was a higher cabinet member whose own ambitions conflicted with Brushov's and whose meddling was becoming too much of a hindrance. And his son was of particular interest to Brushov. Alexei was his son."

Just speaking his name was painful. A thousand more memories rushed through her mind. She tried not to experience them again, but it was difficult. She winced and looked down to the floor. "Shostakov was very wealthy and influential, a lover of arts and music and fine things. He had a significant stake in the Mariinsky Ballet Company in St. Petersberg. My mission was two-fold: I was to pose as a dancer in Shostakov's company, gain his trust, and put an end to him. I was also to bring Alexei to Brushov."

"_You dance wonderfully. I am entranced by you, Natalia. Come, my sweet. Come and meet my son."_

She heard Steve shift his weight, the old floor creaking under his feet. A second later he was stepping to the bed. He sat on it, and it creaked so loudly that she grimaced again. "I take it you succeeded," he surmised.

"No." Her eyes burned. Now it came to the truth, the things she'd buried deep so that she'd never think of them again. Through the cracks in her mind they seeped to the surface. "I… I fell in love with him. I didn't think I could feel that sort of thing. I didn't think I could, but I did. It came on so fast and unexpectedly that I… I abandoned my mission. Alexei took me away. He tried to save me from myself. We ran away and…"

"_Marry me. Please say 'yes'. Natalia, please."_ Firm lips and sweet pleasure and strong hands holding her own. The wide Russian countryside. Freedom and peace.

She drew a short breath through her nose, blinking away the stinging in her eyes. "There was no escape from this life. Brushov caught us." Distant thunder. A summer storm. _"Run! Get away!"_

"_No! Stay with me! Don't leave me! Alexei!"_

The sky was crimson and pink and orange as the sun set behind the clouds. The acrid smell of smoke scorched her lungs as the house in which they'd been hiding burned to the ground. Car doors slammed. Brushov. _How did he find us? How? _There was terror and pain and panic and blood like rain. _"Alexei!"_

Natasha dug her nails into her palms. "He'd found another way to kill Shostakov. And he took Alexei away. I always thought…"

"That he was dead?"

Natasha bit lower lip hard enough to draw blood and nodded. Not that it mattered. If she'd known he was alive, what would she have done differently? Nothing. _"You failed me, Natalia. Black Widow does not fail and Black Widow does not love. Perhaps you need a reminder. I'll teach you again."_ Pain and fear and screams. _Violation._ "I went back to him. I kept doing his dirty work. I had to. Five years ago he sent me to Iran to escort a nuclear scientist out of the country that he had his eye on. Got shot, nearly killed. Lost my man but picked up the attention of SHIELD. Barton was sent to terminate me a few months later. You know the rest."

He did. She could feel his eyes on her, observing her and analyzing her in the quiet minutes that followed. She fought to remain still even as her flesh crawled and her heart pounded and the room spun. She was naked, vulnerable. Exposed. Eventually he spoke. "You got out. That's the important thing."

She couldn't believe the naïve bullshit that came out of his mouth sometimes. "Spoken like someone who's never been anything less than a perfect soldier." The spite in her voice was venomous, but she did nothing to restrain it.

Steve looked hurt and angry. "You think I don't know what it's like to make mistakes? Mistakes that hurt other people?" He shook his head and stood. "You think I don't know what it's like to lose someone you care about?"

"I think your version of hurting other people and mine are light years apart from each other," she hissed. The guilt was like poison pounding through her veins. "And I highly doubt whoever you lost ended up a twisted psychopath working for the enemy."

Steve was taken aback by that. He didn't argue with her, though she knew it wasn't because he didn't want to. She was downplaying things that hurt him, casting them aside as irrelevant and inconsequential when they obviously weren't. But she couldn't deal with what she felt for him right now. And she couldn't stand his _perfection_. "What did they do to him? He was…" Steve trailed off, disturbed. _He's strong and fast and stood against Captain America like it was nothing. _Natasha winced against the pain in her chest and head and neck. "He looked… insane."

Natasha closed her eyes against the image of Alexei's handsome face twisted in murderous rage as he'd strangled her. He'd never recognized her, or if he had, he hadn't cared. Or he had cared, and that was worse, because that meant he had intentionally tried to kill her. "I don't know."

If Steve didn't believe her, he didn't confront her about it. "What was it about him that made Brushov so interested in him?"

In the years since she'd lost him, lost the man who'd been foolish enough to try and save her, she'd never much thought about it. She'd forced herself not to. Even after Clint had brought her out of that life, she'd never gone back to these places in her memories, too frightened of what she'd find. "I don't know," she said again. "Brushov only told me what I needed to know to get the job done. Who and what and where and when. Never why."

Steve didn't look pleased with that. "Well, there must have been something he wanted from him." He looked like he wanted to say something further, but his unhappy expression slid from his face as he stared at her like he was suddenly seeing her. She wanted to shrivel and hide. "Are you okay?" he softly asked. "He really did a number on you." He was visibly ashamed for not having cared to ask earlier. "You're shivering."

She was, and it wasn't because it was cold. The room was downright oppressive, the air still and stale. He walked over to the armoire, opening it with a creak of old hinges. He reached inside and pulled out a few rough and well-used towels. He handed the towels to her. "Here." He offered her a bit of a comforting smile and then turned away and moved to the window. It took her beleaguered mind a minute to realize he was giving her some privacy.

He stood beside the musty old curtains, closing them as much as possible and keeping an eye on the street below. Natasha hesitated a moment more, watching as his eyes narrowed and looked over their surroundings carefully. Then she took one of the towels and wiped her body dry. She peeled her soaked sweatshirt off. She stopped then, staring at his back, abruptly embarrassed and sheepish though she couldn't for the life of her understand why. Her body was a weapon. She'd undressed in front of countless men. But she was uncertain in front of Steve. Still, she pulled her sodden tank off. Her shorts followed. Clad only in her bra and panties, she wrapped herself in the towel after taking quick stock of her injuries. Aside from the pain in her throat, the bump on her head, and a plethora of bruises and scrapes, she was alright. It was something of a miracle, considering how close they'd come to disaster down in that lab.

She turned her gaze back to Steve. He had a smaller towel that he was trying to reach behind him to press against the bites on the back of his left shoulder. "Come here," she ordered softly.

"What?" He turned around and glanced at her. She caught him blushing as his eyes flicked up and down her body. The towel barely covered her.

"I said come here. Let me."

She moved to the bed. Now he hesitated for a tense moment. Eventually he turned from the window and sat beside her. He pulled his shirt over his head and unveiled a slew of nasty bites and deep scratches down his back. The worst were clustered about the nape of his neck and shoulder. His right forearm also had a serious bite on it. They'd stopped bleeding already. She knew he healed faster than anyone due to the super soldier serum. She'd seen him take serious hits during battle and get up and walk it off like they were nothing. The next day it was like he'd never been hurt at all. But she'd never witnessed what the serum could do up close. His torn skin had already begun to heal. The angry lacerations would have warranted medical attention in anyone else. Bites like this from feral, possibly rabid dogs should have been a serious matter. She was thankful that for him they weren't.

She moved behind him and gently pressed the towel he'd handed her to the bloody mess. He sucked in a harsh breath and jerked beneath her fingers. "Sorry," she whispered. She was more careful as she wiped away the reddened water.

"It's alright." She worked silently for a moment. His skin was smooth and hot, his muscles shifting and flexing under her light touch. She was entranced by it, by how warm and strong and sturdy he was. "I'm sorry, too. About everything that happened to you."

That doused her heart like ice water. "I don't want your pity," she snapped, pulling away.

He turned to look at her, his eyes flashing. "It's not pity," he said. His voice had a hard edge to it. "Caring is _not_ pity."

"It is to me."

"Damn it, Nat, _listen_ to yourself! We're partners, and you don't have an ounce of faith in me. What did you think, that I would throw you out or judge you or hate you? I'm not this naïve paragon of virtue and innocence. That's what people _think_ I am, just like how everyone thinks you're this ruthless murderer. There's more to both of us, and you know it."

"Steve, I–"

"We can't work together if you don't trust me. You should have told me all this before we left DC. _You should have told me_." His hurt and anger and disappointment were downright crushing. For the first time in her life she felt bad, truly and deeply, for not believing in someone else. For not speaking the truth when she should have. He sighed. "I don't care about who you were. I care about _you_. And I want you to trust me. I _need_ you to trust me."

She didn't know if she could. She wanted to. But it went against everything she was, everything she'd been made to be. She wasn't a soldier. She wasn't a friend. She was Black Widow. _Black Widow does not feel. Black Widow does not love._

They didn't speak again for a long minute. She didn't look at him, couldn't make herself look at him. Her eyes stung with a mixture of exhaustion and shameful tears she refused to cry. "Look, if you want to try and save him… I can understand that. We can – let's go to that warehouse tomorrow. Maybe there are answers there, at least better answers than what we have."

_Stop, Steve. Don't do this._

But he couldn't hear her unspoken plea. And even if he could've, he wouldn't have stopped. "And if things get rough, we call for extraction and wait for Fury to give the go ahead. We'll make sure Brushov never hurts anyone else again. I promise you."

She wanted to scream. She closed her eyes and moved away and tucked her knees to her chest and squeezed them as hard as she could. Had she done this on purpose? Used his compassion for her against him? She didn't even know anymore. The spy was so engrained in her that she couldn't pull herself apart from it. She couldn't filter her thoughts and emotions and desires from those of Black Widow. His concern, his feelings for her… It was weakness. _Exploit it. Turn it to your own ends._ She was evil, pure and simple. And she hated herself for it.

"Natasha?"

She sunk into defeat, apathetic and fatigued and numb. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Rogers."

"Hey." His voice was soft and unimposing. He angled around and took her shoulders in his hands again. "Look at me." It took all of her will to do that. His eyes were bright and open. There was no doubt. No wariness or hesitation. Just his faith in her and in himself. "I keep my promises, and I swear to you that we'll stop him."

He was deluding himself if he thought he could ever be anything other than a good man. He couldn't walk into this world of betrayal and murder and lies. This shadowy hell didn't honor good men. It maimed them, destroyed them. He was only going to get hurt. The last thing she wanted was for him to get hurt. She wanted to warn him, to tell him to get out now and go back to the safe house and leave her to complete her mission. She _needed_ to warn him.

She didn't. She wanted him too much, and she was too selfish.

He patted her shoulder with a soft, friendly smile on his lips. "You should sleep. I'll keep watch."

He made to stand, his fingers sliding from her skin, and the thought of losing contact with him was unbearable. She grabbed his hand and stopped him, unable to summon forth the courage to look at his face. This exposure, this level of vulnerability, was novel and raw and frightening. So was the sharp punishment of shame and regret. "Nat?"

Inexplicably her mind went back to those old letters she'd seen in his apartment. She felt so low and lost that it hurt just to think of them. Her world was twisted and inverted and not right. "That person you loved who you lost… What happened to her?"

He looked confused for a moment. His eyes gained a guarded look to them. "I've lost everyone I loved."

That was even more distressing, so much so that she made herself ignore it. Her aching heart gave her no choice. She didn't let him dismiss her or escape. She needed to know. "What happened to her?"

Steve released a long breath he'd been holding. "It doesn't matter," he said. There was something very painful there, something that was beyond closure or resolution. "I lost her a long time ago." He wasn't going to say anything more. He shook his head. "Get some rest."

He tried to move away again, but she wouldn't let him. _She couldn't let him._

She was up and off the bed, holding tight to his hand as she wrapped her other arm around his back. She kissed him forcefully, not giving him a chance to struggle or even protest. Her towel fell away to the floor as she pressed herself to his chest, standing on her toes to keep her mouth on his. He grunted and then groaned in surprise. "Natasha, what're you…"

She didn't let him finish, passionately devouring his mouth, sliding both her arms around his neck and tangling her fingers in his hair. She felt more certain of herself now than she had in days. This she knew. This she could control. She needed that as desperately as she needed him. She trailed her lips down his throat and his heaving chest. He gasped, breathing loudly with mounting desire. "Nat… I don't think…" He swallowed nervously, shifting his weight as she kissed the planes of his stomach, sliding her hands over smooth skin and powerful muscles that rippled beneath her exploring fingers. "This – this isn't a good idea." Her hands slipped down under his shorts. "Don't do that… Natasha! God."

They were back on the bed a breath later. She turned and pushed him onto it and climbed on top of him, straddling his waist and pinning his hands in hers. She folded their fingers together, planting a trail of hot kisses along his jaw and down his neck. All the pain and fear – all of the memories – were gone in a rush of ecstasy. She'd wanted this for so long when she was honest enough to admit that to herself. She couldn't stop. She didn't want to stop. Every part of her conscience screamed that she let him go and end this now and push him away, but she ignored it. She was going to hurt him. She was going to hurt them both.

But the moment was worth it.

She paused in her teasing and tormenting to look at him. Steve's eyes were half-lidded and swimming in arousal. He was watching her like none of this was quite real and he didn't quite understand. She'd never seen him so confused and torn and uncertain. It was empowering that she had this effect on him. It was also miserable, because she was driving him into something she wasn't sure he wanted. She'd never cared about something like that before. She couldn't stop. Not now. Everything was so twisted inside her, a tangled knot of wants and reservations and feelings and fears. She was cold and calculating, but this was anything but. She was composed and unfeeling, but this was wild and sensuous. She unbuttoned his shorts and pushed them down, reveling in the look on his face and the hoarse moan that came from his lips. "We shouldn't…"

She crawled back over him and leaned down and kissed him again, smothering his words. He didn't fight, didn't push her away. Instead he grabbed her face, weaving his hands through her hair, and kissed her back. She tasted salt and heat and realized she was crying. She couldn't hide anything from him. He saw it all. He wiped the tears away with the pad of his thumb. "Nat?" She leaned into his touch, pressing her lips to his palm and then sliding them along his fingers. "What…"

She kissed him, silencing his questions. She didn't want to hear his doubts. "I want to feel," she whispered desperately against his lips. "Steve, please… Please make me feel." His hands stroked down her back, and she trembled under his touch. She was lying to herself, deluding herself. She wasn't in control. She was wrong, and she'd never felt so frightened in her life. She'd never wanted anything, _anyone_, so badly. Her fingers reached down between them and took him and pushed him closer and closer to letting go. His resistance died a slow, aching death in his eyes. _"Please."_

If he wanted to stop her, he would stop her. He was much stronger than her. If he wanted to stop her, _he would stop her._

But he didn't.


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger, __Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, adult situations)

**RED RAIN**

**5**

Steve didn't sleep that night. He couldn't, and not just because they were in the middle of a dangerous mission with enemy spies and soldiers likely tracking them and someone needed to keep watch. He couldn't slow the thunder of his heart, the racing storm of his thoughts. After they'd made love, Natasha had fallen asleep almost instantly. He'd untangled himself from her to get dressed, hastily tugging on his boxers and shorts as he glanced once or twice out the window at the heavy night pressing down upon the dingy street beyond. He'd hesitated for a moment, shaking in the silence, feeling so much and yet nothing at all, and then he'd looked back to her form on the bed. Her skin glowed white in the moonlight, her radiant hair shining like blood on the pillows. Something inside him _hurt_, and he couldn't describe what it was or how to make it stop. So he'd gone back to her, gathered her in his arms, and held her.

He sat with his back to the headboard, Natasha's naked body tucked to his chest. He tenderly ran his hand up and down the curve of her back, sliding his fingers across soft and smooth skin. She'd thrown an arm around his stomach and clung to him, her head pillowed on his chest, breathing softly and deeply. This was the most peaceful he'd ever seen her. The most at ease. The most unguarded. She was beautiful and calm and serene. He could almost forget who she was and everything she'd told him. Almost.

_Black Widow._ Knowing how she'd been made into the world's deadliest assassin made the mask she always wore even more disturbing. It was more than obvious she'd been terrified of the truth, and he knew there was much more to it that she wasn't telling him. He wasn't sure if she was trying to protect him or her, but more than likely it was for both their sakes' that she'd kept the worst of the horrors she'd lived and the atrocities she'd committed hidden. He suddenly understood her in a way he hadn't before, and not just because she'd revealed her secrets. He'd always wondered how she could live the way she did, detached and closed off without ever _connecting_ with anyone on a truthful, meaningful level. He came from a world of trust, an army where men depended on each other for their very lives, where demons and ghosts and hopes and dreams were laid bare while he and his company had been trapped in foxholes and huddled around campfires and sharing a rare drink. As a team they'd nursed wounds new and old, and as a team they'd weathered and won the war. Togetherness and camaraderie and faith in even the darkest of situations. That had gotten him through some tough times. She had nothing and no one. He knew what that was like, too. But if she herself couldn't stand to face the pain of her past, how could she ask anyone else to?

Well, she'd asked him. Or involved him, at least, without even asking. He wasn't bothered by that, but he was afraid for her. She was unraveling before his very eyes, and he was damn helpless to stop it. Whatever Brushov had done to her… He'd transformed an orphaned girl into a mass murderer. Steve didn't care what she thought; that sort of thing wasn't _enjoyable,_ as she put it. And it wasn't something someone could choose to have happen. She'd been a child. She'd been forced, hurt and coerced and manipulated and twisted. Sold into slavery of the worst kind, even if it was without chains and destitution. Natasha was proud, and she'd never allow anyone to label her a victim. He realized he'd been a fool to suggest it, even if he thought it was true. In her eyes, she was nobody's victim.

Part of him wanted her to continue to think that. Part of him wanted her back as she was and wanted to go back to how they had been before she'd shown up at his apartment two days ago in the middle of the night. There'd been barriers between them, maybe not so well-defined or easy to interpret, but boundaries nonetheless. Partners. Coworkers. Avengers. Agents of SHIELD. She'd destroyed them all, torn them down and stripped them away with her hands and lips and hungers, and he had let her. He didn't know what the hell they were doing and what he was to her. That hurt to admit. He didn't know what she wanted of him. A friend? A lover? He had tried to be the former and she'd thrown it back in his face, and he wasn't sure he knew how to be the latter or if he could or even wanted to. What they'd done wasn't meaningless to him. Stark kept telling him to "get with the future", as he put it, and in the future people slept together with no strings attached, no obligations. Love wasn't a prerequisite. People seemed to forget that this stuff happened all the time back in his day as well; it just wasn't mentioned in decent conversation, let alone spread all over the world via social networking. He didn't know if that was what she wanted, a fling, a one night-stand brought on by stress and fear. It wasn't what he wanted. Truth be told, he didn't know what he wanted and he hadn't since he'd woken up in New York two years ago.

All he knew was for the first time in a long time he didn't feel guilty. He held Natasha, listening to her breathe, caressing her back and watching the night shift and twist around him, and he didn't think of Peggy's face or her laugh or her smile. He'd always been afraid that if he let himself care for anyone else, that if he let himself move on and accept his new life, it would be akin to betrayal. It was stupid, dramatic nonsense, and he knew it. Peggy had even told him that on one of those rare visits where her mind had been sharp and intact. She'd practically _begged_ him to live his life as if her own guilt at having lived hers had been unbearable. He'd never been able to shake his fear before. This wasn't what he'd imagined it would be like, but to say he hadn't enjoyed it would be a blatant lie. And to say he regretted it would be an even bigger one. Still, he felt more uncertain of himself than he had in a long time. And more alive. And more worried. And more _needed_, and not just as a soldier or a hero to the nation and the world.

Natasha needed him.

So he stayed awake while she slept soundly and watched over her. He held her tight whenever a shudder wracked her frame, hushed her whenever her breathing hitched even slightly. If bad dreams threatened her, he'd do whatever he could to keep them at bay. Maybe his warm embrace would be enough to provide one good night's sleep. He had his fair share of nightmares; the SHIELD psychiatrists had told him over and over again that he had a pretty strong case of PTSD and survivor's guilt, as if what he'd experienced could possibly be bundled up and neatly labeled with a diagnosis. But what he'd suffered paled in comparison to the trauma she'd obviously endured. He dropped a gentle kiss to her mussed hair and held her tighter. Maybe he couldn't come between her and her demons, but he was willing to try. He was willing to protect her, even if she didn't want it or think she needed it.

Eventually the shadows lightened to gray. The sun rose outside, spreading the golden light of dawn through the little room. He tried to force himself to get going, to get them both moving before they were discovered, but the street below was quiet and uninhabited and Natasha seemed so content beside him. Against his better judgment, he let her sleep longer and watched the dawn slip away and turn to morning. His mind finally emptied.

Steve opened eyes that had stubbornly slipped shut, bright light bleeding through his eyelids. He groaned softly, not remembering having fallen asleep. It couldn't have been for long. Something soft and warm was cuddled against him. "Nat? We should get going."

He felt Natasha stiffen before she moved, and that was probably the only thing that saved him from having his neck snapped. She was up in a flash of red and pale flesh, her hand aiming for his throat. He caught her wrist and slowed her strike but only just. Her knee was up into his stomach, driving the air from his lungs, as she yanked him over and down off the bed. He hit the floor hard on his back, his head smacking roughly against the carpet, and she was over him, straddling him with her fist raised.

"Natasha!" he gasped. Her eyes were cold and narrowed and filled with murderous intent. Her fingernails were gouging into the flesh of his throat. "Stop! It's me! It's Steve!"

Recognition glinted in her eyes. Immediately her face softened and filled with horror. The iron grip around his neck loosened, and she leaned back. She whispered something softly in Russian that he didn't quite catch, clambering off of him. She sat, pulling her legs to her chest and crossing her arms protectively over them. Steve winced as he gingerly leaned up; her attack hadn't hurt as much as it had surprised him. He grabbed the blanket off the bed as he righted himself and draped it over Natasha's nude body. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

He sat beside her on the floor, patiently waiting until she collected herself. "Honestly, didn't quite picture that for the morning after," he joked with a disarming smile, trying to pierce the tension with some levity. It fell flat. He made himself stare ahead and keep his distance. He even prevented their legs from brushing against each other. He wondered how deep the damage went beneath all of her power and strength. He wondered how ugly the scars were under her fiery beauty. He wondered if she really thought he would hurt her. And he wondered if she was going to brush last night and everything they'd shared aside like it had never happened. He realized then that that was what had hurt him when he'd sat alone last night. That miserable ache in his chest, that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach… It had been the fear that she'd pretend they hadn't slept together, that he was just another man to her that she could use and abuse. That she couldn't tell his hands from the many hands that had harmed her in the past.

He knew this was neither the time nor the place. They were in the middle of a dangerous mission that had far-reaching, frightening consequences. Any awkwardness over what they had done in a heated moment of passion was better resolved when they weren't being tracked and hunted by their enemies while trying to stop Brushov and his henchmen from building biological weapons. Right now they needed to focus on the task at hand and get it done.

"Steve." Her soft call seemed permission enough for him to look at her. He found her staring blankly at the stained carpet covering the floor in front on them. Her eyes were dead and vacant. Suddenly she seemed small and worn and beaten down. As if the first time hadn't been enough, she apologized again. Now her voice was raw and pinched with tears. "I'm so sorry."

Steve didn't know what she was apologizing for. For mistaking him for a nightmare from her past? For attacking him? For sleeping with him? For lying? Or something worse? It was too disturbing to contemplate. What the hell was he doing, getting mixed up with a coworker? Getting mixed up with her? "It's alright," he murmured. He slid his arm around her and gently tugged her against him. "You didn't hurt me."

She watched him with those empty eyes. They were mired in guilt and shame and a dozen other things he couldn't discern. They were filled with tears. He watched her, too, uncertain of what to do to comfort her. But maybe just being there, sitting beside her, was enough. She tenderly laid her hand to his cheek and leaned toward him and kissed him softly. This had none of the urgency and desperation of the night before. This was gentle, loving. She deepened it, leaning into his chest, and any fear he'd had of her ignoring what they'd shared was dashed from his mind. She pulled away finally, cupping his face in her hands and sweeping her thumb over his lips. Then the distance between them turned too painful, so he kissed her, pulling her closer. He gazed into her eyes with trust and understanding. "I know you wouldn't hurt me."

She said nothing to that. There was no time for this, at any rate. They needed to get moving; if their pursuers had stopped the hunt for the night, they would most assuredly resume it now with daylight on their side. She stood, wrapping the blanket around herself again to hide her body. He didn't know why, but he respected her wishes and averted his eyes. He got to his feet and turned away as she dressed, focusing on a quick search for his shirt. He pulled it over his head and then watched out the window until she was ready.

When he looked back a moment later, Natasha was herself again. Her eyes were cool and collected. Her tears had vanished. Her hand was steady. Any sign of the scared and desperate girl from the night before was gone as though that girl had never existed at all. It was remarkable and a tad unsettling, and he couldn't help but stare as she nonchalantly stepped past him toward to the door. "Let's go."

* * *

They split up with separate tasks. Steve went to find them a car. It was an old hunk of junk that he'd "borrowed" from the side of a house that looked empty. He'd never felt entirely comfortable stealing things, even when it had been absolutely necessary during the war. He didn't know if there was another way in this situation that could've avoided breaking the law, but taking public transportation seemed like a huge risk. He was feeling increasingly uncertain about going to Sokolyne without an okay from SHIELD and without some backup. Getting in, learning what they could, and getting out as fast as possible dictated some sort of transportation. The car was in disrepair; it didn't look like anyone had used it (or cared about it) in a while. He hotwired it, shocked and relieved that it started and drove well enough, and made his way to the rendezvous to collect Natasha.

Only she wasn't there. She'd gone off to acquire weapons, claiming that she had contacts around this area that wouldn't appreciate her approaching them with anyone in tow. He waited outside a small shop at the end of the somewhat busy, unremarkable street that they'd chosen as a meeting place. He sat inside the car, glancing impatiently at his watch even though his internal sense of time was extremely accurate. Minutes were slipping away, and she wasn't back. Five. Fifteen. Thirty. _Fifty_. Eventually he got nervous just _sitting_ there and waiting, so he left the car and wandered around, keeping his keen senses attuned for any sign of trouble. His heart and mind were completely lost in anger and anxiety and worry and hurt. Where the hell had she gone? She hadn't said a single thing about being away for this long. God, what if something had happened to her and he hadn't been there? What if she was hurt or worse? What if they had been followed and their enemies had waited until they were separated to try and take one of them out? There was no way for him to tell. The rational part of his mind ridiculed him for being so stupid and silly; they'd been on plenty of missions before where she'd gone off on her own to complete her own tasks, dangerous tasks, and he'd never worried about her like this. His feelings for her were clouding his judgment and he damn well knew it, but he couldn't rein them in.

He went back to the car and tried not to drive himself crazy. It was well past noon when the passenger door finally creaked opened. He nearly jumped in his seat, and that was saying something about how out of sorts he felt because very few people could sneak up on him. Natasha slid inside the passenger door and settled on the ripped front seat. "Go," she said.

"Go? What the hell? You were gone for almost two hours!"

She glared at him icily. "Worried?"

Steve gritted his teeth. "You're damn right I was."

"You know, I have managed to do countless missions _just like this _without getting myself hurt or killed before the great Captain America joined SHIELD. I was fine before you, and I'll be just fine after you."

That was harsh. He didn't know if he'd gotten too close and she was just lashing out in self-defense or if she was deliberately trying to hurt him, and he wasn't going to stand for it. He wasn't going to be brushed aside like that. It took all of his control to keep his emotions in check. "I know you can take care of yourself, but that's not the point," he returned.

"That's the only point." She handed him a gun, which he stared at in disgust. Fighting to cool his temper, he took the weapon and slid into his shorts. Two more were tucked into her sweatshirt that he could see. "Now go."

Steve could hardly believe how dismissive she was being. _It's not the time or the place. It's not._ So he threw the car into drive and tried to pretend that what she had said and done didn't feel like knife in his chest scraping at his heart.

They stuck to the less populated areas as much as possible. Natasha's phone jacked into SHIELD's GPS system, and she directed him through the winding streets of Yalta to avoid the busy markets, beach fronts, and touristy areas. Then they went back to the main coastline road. Sokolyne was north of Yalta, but because of the terrain there wasn't a direct way to get there. They were going to have to backtrack a bit, driving west along the coast toward Sevastopol. Heading back toward Rumlow and the STRIKE Team stoked to life Steve's doubts again, but Natasha softly reminded him that they had a far better chance of slipping in undetected, learning what they could of Brushov's operation, and escaping again as a team of two than did an entire company of black ops soldiers. He knew she was right.

But that didn't ease him much. He didn't think it eased her either, although she was back to not looking at him and not speaking to him. Her anger was gone, at least, her form relaxed, her eyes returning to the empty daze of that morning. He didn't know if he should say something. The silence was heavy and perturbing. He decided to focus on the mission. "What are we looking for?"

Natasha sighed softly. She lowered her gaze to her hands in her lap, deflated. "Whatever we can find."

"Obviously they succeeded with whatever they gave Alexei to turn him into this Red Guardian," he said, thinking back to the files they had found in the hospital lab. "I suppose that's a good a place to start as any. Maybe there's information on how to undo it."

She looked like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the courage or the words. "Steve… I just–"

"What are we going to do if he's there?" he interrupted. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. He didn't want to think about the unspoken things between them. "We'll need a plan to handle that. You think there's any chance you can get through to him?"

Natasha sat still beside him. Her face was quickly reclaimed by that stoic, unreadable expression. It was obvious she was burying everything. That didn't seem healthy, but right now maybe it was for the best. "I don't know," she quietly admitted. "I'm not sure he recognized me, and if he did…"

Steve released a slow breath. Shostakov had been out of his mind with rage. Obviously he hadn't always been that way, which logically meant that the insanity was a byproduct (or, as disturbing as it was, the direct product) of whatever Brushov had done to him. If Natasha had run away with him when she'd been eighteen, then Alexei had spent more than ten years in the hands of what sounded like a sadistic sociopath. The sort of psychological damage that could come from something like that… Steve had helped liberate Nazi concentration camps during the war. He'd seen men twisted and tortured, Bucky included. He didn't want to say anything to her, but there was very distinct possibility that Alexei was too far gone to be saved. And if that was the case…

Natasha was too smart to have not realized the same things he had. He reached over and took her hand where it rested on the seat between them. "Taking him out is the last resort," he promised.

"What did I tell you before about making promises you can't keep?" He expected her chilly wrath, but there was just solemn acceptance. She managed half a weak smile for him and pulled her hand away but not before sweeping her thumb over his knuckles in what he thought was appreciation. The tension dissipated just a bit.

An hour and a half later they found themselves driving up through the steep, forested mountains. The day was hot and bright. Natasha had entered the geographical coordinates of the warehouse into the GPS and found it north of Sokolyne, which was little more than a small town. Stone buildings and churches dotted the hills, old cobblestone roads leading them through a sparsely populated village. It was remote, difficult to access, and therefore entirely suitable for a secret base of operations. They left the car alongside an old, abandoned house and continued on foot. The village was quiet, seemingly devoid of life. Steve didn't get many pop culture references in this new century, but as they walked through the silent, deserted place, all he could think about was that ridiculously stupid line in _Star Wars_ about having a bad feeling about this.

The coordinates led them away from the village and into the woods. The trees were thick and verdant, and the air was uncomfortably hot and humid even in the shade. Rocky terrain slowed their progress, a few steep, smooth outcroppings along the route difficult for her to climb unaided. They silently picked their way through the forest, hiking for another couple of hours, Natasha leading the way and Steve keeping his eyes and ears intently trained on everything around them. As the sun was beginning to set, they reached a steep drop.

Steve fell to a crouch, Natasha lowering herself beside him. The warehouse was just before them, maybe two hundred feet ahead and down the ravine, nestled in the trees. It was sizeable, and a few smaller buildings were attached to the rectangular main one. The ground dropped off more on the far side, dipping down into a valley that was heavily wooded. A road wound away through the mountains. The warehouse was surrounded by a fence that was a good twenty feet high. A gate in the fence was located on the road on the far side, and two trucks were parked around it. Their vantage wasn't great, but that side of the building looked like some sort of loading dock.

They stayed on the forest floor, watching below them for a few minutes. "I don't see anyone," Natasha whispered.

"No," Steve agreed. That didn't seem right. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the complex again. Movement caught his eye. "Two at the fence."

Natasha followed his gaze. She looked a bit perplexed and more dismayed. "Not very well guarded."

"No. Too easy." He glanced at her. "Do you still want to do this?" She nodded. "Nightfall?" She nodded again.

So they waited. They stayed in the woods, silent and endlessly patient, as the last light of day faded from the cerulean sky. They observed as men moved in and out of the building, pushing carts full of gray metal crates and cases towards the trucks. The men wore black and gray and brown and had rifles slung over their shoulders, but there didn't seem to be that many of them. Steve could hear just the hints of voices from this distance, watching as the men worked slowly and lackadaisically and smoked and chatted in Russian. Obviously they were moving equipment, but he was too far away to hear specifically what they were moving or to where, even if these thugs had that information and were actually talking about it. He counted about twenty different men, but there was no way to tell how many were inside the building.

As twilight descended, the men finished loading the second truck. Engines groaned and sputtered to life, and a few of the soldiers hopped into the cabs. The gate was opened with a muffled buzz, and the trucks rumbled down the dirt road away from the warehouse. The rest of the men extinguished their cigarettes and went back inside, save for the same two that they had first spotted. They stayed outside to guard the gate. None of the other entrances to the building were visibly defended. It was difficult to tell at this range, but there didn't seem to be any surveillance equipment or security measures, either. That meant one of two things: they were sloppy (unlikely) or they were sure they wouldn't be bothered (more likely). _Or they're making it look like an easy job to get in._

Finally it was night. Thick clouds had rolled in from the west while they'd waited, covering the moon and providing a truly deep blanket of black to hide them. They stealthily slipped down the mountainside, moving with deft, agile feet, avoiding ruts and pitfalls. They were silent, without the rustle of leaves or the cracking of twigs underfoot. Eventually they emerged from the forest near the fence, but they crouched behind a few larger bushes, gauging to see if their approach had been noticed. It hadn't been.

They formulated a plan with only glances and nods. Swiftly they crept along the fence, sticking to the heavy shadows. They stopped at the corner of the warehouse where the fence turned sharply to the left toward the yard and the gate. Steve crouched, cupping his hands together, and Natasha firmly planted her right foot in them. He gave her a nod, which she returned, and then he threw her clear over the barbed wire that crowned the fence.

She curled into a somersault and landed softly, throwing out one leg for balance. Again she nodded at him before slipping away. He watched as she melted into the shadows; his vision was enhanced enough that he could trace the lighter gray of her outline as she rounded the corner of the building. He followed on the outside, glancing among her and the ground beneath his feet and the men milling about outside the gate. They had no idea what was coming at them. A streak of black shot forth from the side of the building faster than they could see, let alone prevent. Steve watched as she yanked the knife from the belt of one of the men before snapping his unsuspecting neck. She whirled and flung the blade toward the other soldier, and he went down with it protruding from his eye.

With the two men dispatched, Steve quickly moved to the gate, waiting for her to open it for him. She stood with her back turned, unmoving and rigid. "Natasha?" he whispered. Other people wouldn't have noticed, but he saw her stiffen ever so slightly. Right then and there he knew. _He knew._ "Natasha!"

She turned and looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were still so dead. Vacant, save for fear and regret, like this had all been inevitable. "I'm sorry, Steve." Again the apology, and this time she said it so softly, so meaningfully, as if it had to power to make what she had done to him and was doing to him right. It didn't. Then she turned and disappeared back into the shadows and _left him_.

"Natasha! God damn it!" he hissed angrily. _"Romanoff!"_ He didn't dare raise his voice any more, and it didn't matter at any rate. She was already gone inside the warehouse, and he was stuck outside the fence. "God damn it," he snarled again, breathing heavily in fury. She'd played him. She'd played him from the very beginning. What the hell was she after? Did she think she could face Shostakov and Brushov alone? Bitter anger and hurt and frustration coursed through him, settling as a miserable ache in his thundering heart. He should have known better. He should have known better! Panting tightly through clenched teeth was all he could do to quell his nearly unrestrainable desire to hit something.

No. She wasn't going to do this to him. She wasn't betraying him like this. He wasn't going to let her waltz into that warehouse where who knew what monsters and ghosts from her past were waiting for her. And he wasn't going to let her use him. Not like this. Not anymore.

The fence was twenty feet high and covered in coiled razor wire at the top. He didn't know if he could jump it, but he sure as hell that he could climb it. Barbed wire didn't stop him; he'd faced more than his fair share during the war. It was painful but more of a nuisance than anything else. Of course, he'd always had the protection of his uniform, not a flimsy cotton shirt and shorts. But there was no choice. He drew a quick breath to center himself and grabbed the metal links of the fence. As rapidly and silently as he could, he climbed. There was a joint right at the gate where the razor wire ended to allow for the major support poles. The space wasn't very big, only maybe six inches wide, but it would have to do. It took only a second for him to get to the top. He climbed over, trying to keep his hands within that narrow gap and using his strength to lift the rest of his body clear over the wire. He swung himself to the other side and made to turn and climb down, only his wrist snagged on the razor wire. "Damn it." The watch had gotten stuck. He never wore them and had completely forgotten about it. The razors near his hand sliced into his skin as he tried to wriggle and twist the watch free, but it wasn't coming and his fingers quickly became slick with blood.

There was shouting and muffled cries around the other side of the warehouse. Steve cursed again, growing increasingly frustrated that he could not get his hand free. He had no time to mess with it any further, giving the watch a yank that broke its links. He gracefully landed in the yard inside the fence. The watch, however, tumbled down to the ground outside. He stared at it, irate and hating his poor luck and this whole goddamn mess, before swiftly turning and running toward the warehouse.

He pressed his back to the cool concrete exterior of the building, reaching behind and pulling the gun Natasha had given him from his shorts. She hadn't given him an extra clip meaning he only had about fifteen rounds. He slid the magazine back into the gun and gritted his teeth. Normally not having ammunition didn't bother him; he rarely used guns anyway. But he didn't have his shield, and he hated going into combat situations without it. Steve silently sprinted down the length of the building, bringing the aerial view he'd had before up in his head. The main loading dock would be too dangerous to infiltrate. There were two side doors, one in the auxiliary building on this side, and another on the opposite end of the building. That seemed a better option, one Natasha had been more likely to use. She couldn't be more than a few minutes ahead of him.

He rounded the smaller building and found the door. It was already open. He recognized her handiwork (it was pretty obvious who'd killed the man lying on the floor). She hadn't tried to move the body, and that meant she didn't intend on being here very long. Steve stepped inside and found himself in some sort of office loaded with computer monitors that were displaying varying angles and rooms inside the warehouse. Another man was slumped in a chair, his eyes glazed with death, his neck broken. Steve stepped to the console and its array of computer screens, his quick eyes devouring each one. He sighed tensely when he saw one that was displaying the rear of the facility with the fence and the yard and the sealed loading dock. The two men Natasha had killed were black blobs on the ground. The soldiers in this office had obviously seen their approach but hadn't raised an alarm. Steve shook his head, feeling increasingly certain that they needed to get out of there. This was a trap.

He quickly looked over the other monitors, hoping to catch a glimpse of Natasha. The warehouse was fairly sizeable and mostly empty, dark and idle. In fact, _everything _was dark and idle. The entire complex seemed vacant and uninhabited, much like the lab under the hospital had been. That didn't bode well. There were other offices. One looked more like a lab. He spotted a flash of black moving inside. _Natasha._ He needed to get her and get out. Further intel was irrelevant. Whatever she hoped to accomplish with Shostakov was irrelevant. It was time to call into Fury and get a strike authorized before these bastards did whatever they planned to do. Saving Alexei was something on which they could focus later after the threat was neutralized.

He was moving, running through the corridors of the building, his memory of the adjacent rooms and hallways from the monitors guiding him. It was a bit of guesswork, but he quickly found the course he'd chosen to be correct. A slew of unconscious or dead soldiers made a rather gruesome and unmistakable trail. Steve rushed past other rooms, checking inside each for the lab. It was so quiet. They were in serious danger. They had been all along.

Finally he found it. He pushed open the door. The room was filled with lab benches, a mess of papers and computers and tools. Natasha sat at one of the computers, her fingers flying over the keyboard. She barely looked up at his entrance, not surprised to see him. "What are you doing?" he snapped, trying to keep his voice quiet and his anger in check. "What the hell was that back there?"

"Get out of here," she answered lowly, her eyes focused on the computer screen. "I gave you an out."

He was losing his patience. For that to happen was saying something. "This is a trap. We need to go."

"You think?" she sarcastically returned.

Steve ground his teeth together in hardly controlled spite. "We're done. Get up. We're leaving. Now." She didn't move. He stalked over to her and grabbed her arm and hauled her less than gently from her seat. _"Now."_

"Not yet," she returned hotly. She was losing her cool as well. He could see the cracks in her eyes, the emotions dripping through them, the dam breaking. She was desperate. She was _terrified_. "Not until I do what I need to."

"We can save him later with backup!" he insisted. "This is more than you and I can handle." She didn't argue, didn't debate or insist they do everything they could to rescue the man she'd once loved. She only returned to her work, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. He looked at what she was doing. She was searching through manifests for that series of numbers and letters that had designated the successful trial they'd found in the hospital lab. Then he glanced around. There were cases on the walls, cabinets labeled and marked and categorized. Cabinets filled with vials. Cold realization doused his anger for a moment. "You're not here for him. You're here for the serum." She said nothing, trying frantically to match the code with these different labels. Steve shook his head, furious. "Stealing it wasn't the mission objective!"

Her eyes flashed. "It wasn't _your_ mission objective."

Steve could hardly believe what he was hearing. He felt fundamentally betrayed, even more than he had before, hurt and fury pulsing through his body. He didn't want to think that he'd been lied to, that he'd been used from the get-go. That the only reason he was here was to act as a damn _bodyguard_ for her so she could steal what the Russians were building. It was one thing for her to use her body and his emotions against him. It was another thing for SHIELD to manipulate him into doing something they knew he'd never otherwise agree to. And it was another on top of that for her to make him think she was crushed under guilt and fear for someone she'd loved and lost when it had really just been a goddamn _show _for his benefit. Just a lie to coerce him into helping her get this far. He knew she thought he was naïve and way too noble and caring; he was ashamed to admit she was _right_.

He floundered in his own thoughts, a silent, stiff moment sneaking away as he reeled with the truth. "You gave me an out." He'd been so goddamn blind. She'd even decided for him how far he could go. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"I'm an agent of SHIELD, same as you," she replied. She was trying to seem cold, but it was all a front. She impatiently glanced between the monitor displaying her search results and the array of hundreds of vials in the cabinets around them. Finally the computer located a match. It flashed, and a name appeared next to the alphanumeric designation. _Insanity serum. _"I follow Fury's orders. You should do the same. He sent you to assess the situation. It's been assessed."

She moved toward the cabinets. "You saw what this stuff can do. You saw how many people it killed!" Steve snapped, grabbing her arm again and pulling her back and _making _her look at him. That long line of dead test subjects, poor young men murdered for nothing. "It turned the man you loved into a raging lunatic! It turned him against you! You said you loved him!" He balled his hand into a fist as he realized how cruel she could be. It was so goddamn brutal that he immediately wanted to dismiss the mere thought of it, but he couldn't. "Unless all of _that_ was a lie, too." She yanked her arm away, but he saw the pain in her eyes. It was nothing compared to the pain tightening and tightening in his chest. "Was it?" he accused. _"Was it?"_

"We're wasting time arguing about this!" she snapped.

"You're not taking that serum out of here. Not on my watch."

"This is _exactly_ why Fury didn't tell you everything. You're blinded by your own self-righteousness."

"I'm not so blind as to not see what it really is. It's _evil_. And evil can't be turned into good. Evil needs to be destroyed, not studied. It's too dangerous!"

"Really," she gasped. She used her phone to break through the keypad lock on one of the cabinets and pulled open the door. She rifled through the vials. "It's a damn good thing that no one sat in judgment when they strapped you to a table and _made_ you."

Steve gritted his teeth. "We were fighting a war."

"So are we," she returned, "only we don't have the luxury of knowing you're the world's only super soldier." Steve stiffened. "If Brushov or anyone else builds an army, SHIELD needs to be able to defeat it." She found the vial in question and picked it up. It was small and thin, filled with a red liquid that looked like blood. It looked menacing, so unlike the serum that they had used on him to transform him from a sick, weak boy into Captain America. She spent only a second analyzing it before sliding it inside her sweater. "You have a problem with it, fine. Take it up with Fury." Just like that, she'd done what she'd needed to, and the discussion was over.

Steve could barely keep himself still, rage blasting over him. He'd never felt so goddamn _useless_. Worthless. Downright emasculated. He thought of all their recent missions, all the times it seemed like SHIELD was striking harder and quicker and _first_. This sort of power… It didn't belong with any government or regime who had the influence, ambitions, and means to turn it into a weapon. And SHIELD certainly had all of that in abundance. "I'm sure figuring out how to stop this serum is the _only_ reason Fury wants it." He couldn't keep the bitter doubt from his voice.

She stopped for a minute, her face averted like he'd caught her in her lie. Maybe he had. He hoped he hadn't. "I trust Fury," she said, though her voice didn't sound very strong.

Steve shook his head. "But you don't trust me."

She finally looked at him. Really looked at him. He could see things in her eyes, things that got to his heart. But she blinked it all away. She wasn't going to answer him. She glared at him as though he'd betrayed _her_. "Next time just take the goddamn out, Rogers."

This wasn't over. He wasn't going to let it be over. He was going to stop her from taking the serum.

But he never got the chance to.

Steve heard the whine of a minigun powering up before the first of the bullets shot through the lab. "Get down!" He grabbed Natasha and yanked her to the floor as gunfire ripped through the room all around them. Things shattered, exploding into razor sharp shards of debris, as they scrambled for cover. Steve tucked Natasha against him, covering her body with his own and wincing as bullets slammed into the metal desk behind them. A round punched through the flimsy material and went straight through his right arm. He grunted against the pain. They needed to get out of there!

Natasha crawled away from him, pulling her gun and leaning up over the desk. She fired back, nailing the man behind the gatling gun and sending it firing wildly. One of the stray bullets ricocheted and clipped her leg, and she fell with a cry. Steve wasted no time, scooping her reeling body up in his arms and jumping up from beneath the desk. One leap had him atop another desk, and he bounded across the small room and plowed into the drywall on the opposite side, praying it would give way. It did.

They were in another hallway. "You okay?" Steve gasped, setting Natasha to the floor. She nodded, grimacing. "Come on!" He took her hand and ran. The spray from the minigun tore through the wall, covering them with sheetrock, but they didn't slow down. They sprinted through the short hallways, hearts pounding and desperate and panicked, and then they burst into the warehouse.

Dozens of men pointed rifles at them. Steve skidded to a stop, Natasha nearly falling beside him. He glanced around frantically, but there was no escape.

They were surrounded.


	6. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger, __Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, adult situations)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Well, I promised to focus on this story, but I'm a victim of rabid plot bunnies. So check out "Unsustainable" over in the _Avengers_ section for more Steve injury/angst (if you're into that sort of thing :-D). I promise regular updates to both stories as fast as I can do them.

This is about to get worse. Way worse…

**RED RAIN**

**6**

"_Opusti pistolet! Uberi svoi ruki vverkh!"_ one of the men shouted, waving his rifle threateningly. _"Pryamo seychas! Poluchit' svoi chertovy ruki vverkh!"_ Natasha shared a quick glance with Steve. _Call for extraction, _he seemed to silently implore, darting his eyes to the watch that was thankfully still around her left wrist. She didn't know what had happened to his; his left hand was a mess of blood and cuts. _Call for extraction._

This might be their only chance. If they were captured, they could discover the watch for what it was, and if that happened, any possibility of reaching the STRIKE Team would be lost. But she hesitated, keeping her weapon trained on the slew of armed soldiers surrounding them and stepping closer to Steve so that her side was pressed to his. The idea of surrender went against everything she'd been trained to be, everything she was. The first man who'd shouted at them lost his temper. _"Brosay oruzhiye! Seychas!"_

But she didn't. Steve glanced in frustration among the dozens of soldiers encircling them, his own gun trained on them. She'd seen him single-handedly take out squadrons of enemies in the past without even breaking a sweat. Between his raw strength and stamina and her speed and agility, the two of them together were nearly unstoppable. But those times they hadn't been surrounded and he'd had his shield and they'd had a plan of attack and the element of surprise on their side. Any strike, no matter how fast or powerful, would get one or both of them shot, and while he could walk off bullet wounds, she wasn't so endowed. As much as she hated it, surrender was really the only option. So she dropped her gun.

Steve was visibly grinding his teeth, probably hard enough to break his jaw. But he did the same, crouching to set his gun to the floor. He met her gaze again as he slowly raised his empty hands. _Call for extraction._ It was like he was screaming it to her, his eyes narrowed and full of anger and confusion. It wasn't a request. It was an order, and he didn't understand why she wasn't following it. _Call for extraction!_ She looked away and raised her own hands, the loose watch sliding down her wrist to her forearm. This could be their only way out. This could be their only chance, and she was wasting it. _She was wasting it._

No matter how much her mind screamed that she should make a rash move and press the button on the watch, even if it led to her getting shot or killed, she couldn't do it. Even if it would save them both, she couldn't do it because she'd lied to Steve. She'd lied to herself. Deep down inside, she knew she couldn't leave without trying to stop this. Without learning the truth. Without trying to save Alexei.

She wasn't so strong or so heartless. She'd sacrificed too much for this, Steve's trust in her not the least of it.

_Damn it, Steve. Why didn't you just take the out?_

It was too late now. Too late to regret her decisions, her lies. Too damn late. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't. She wanted to scream and fight and protect him, but she couldn't. He was too fundamentally good and decent to ever leave her, especially when she was in danger and especially when she needed him. She tried to convince herself that this had all been inevitable, that he'd become tied to her fate the minute Nick Fury had decided it was a good idea to partner Captain America with Black Widow. That it hadn't been her feelings for him, her feelings that she now knew more than ever he shared, that had trapped him. That it wasn't her fault for kissing him and touching him and trusting him with her dark truths and loving him like she'd never really loved anyone before. She'd always feared the day that her past would catch her. She was pulling him down. She was dragging him into hell with her.

_It's too late._

The group of soldiers threatening them parted, and a tall, bearded, burly man wearing a green military uniform and cap pushed his way through the crowd of soldiers. His beady eyes were narrowed and malicious. Natasha felt her heart stop in her chest and the blood drain from her head until she was cold and dizzy.

Brushov.

He was as she remembered him even though it had been years since she'd seen him last. He was ugly and perpetually glowering and he exuded something very dark. He was hungry, but it was a controlled hunger. It drove him but it rarely consumed him, and when it did, it was exceedingly fast, efficient, and deadly. He wasn't the sort to ask questions, to show mercy, to doubt or taunt or garner sadistic enjoyment from his cruelty or even _feel_. He'd fashioned the Red Room after himself, and it was his ideal world where the only emotions that mattered were anger and fear: his anger and everyone else's fear. He was ruthless, vindictive but without flourish, the worst sort of coldly violent. That hadn't changed, even if his face was more lined and his hair grayer. And he still stood tall and coolly confident and entirely imposing.

His face was unreadable as he approached. Natasha forced her body to be still, though the instinct to cower or run or shake in fear was almost insurmountable. A thousand memories she'd spent a lifetime trying to forget were pushing and prodding and grabbing at her. His large hand on her head. His voice, quiet in encouragement. He could seem so pleasant, so comforting, so _fatherly_ when the moment had suited him. Not loving, but demanding a twisted sort of affection nonetheless. His hands, strong and powerful, teaching her how to be strong and powerful. Needles in her skin and poison in her veins. His rage. She'd been terrified of failure. Terrified of his disappointment, of his punishment. Of retribution. She was terrified now, and it took all of her will to remind herself that she didn't belong to him anymore.

He stared at her. She wouldn't look away. _She wouldn't look away_. "Natalia," he eventually said in his deep baritone. "I knew if I called, you would come."

He said this so smugly, so sure of himself and everything he had done to her as though almost five years of working with SHIELD, of going straight and fighting on behalf of good, meant nothing. In the face of his commanding stare, maybe that was true. Natasha remained frozen, her hands raised in the air, exposed and vulnerable as Brushov reached toward her. Tensing every muscle in her body was all she could do to stay still as he slipped his hands into her clothes. His touch made her skin crawl and the room spin. She felt his fingers close around the vial of serum tucked into her sweater.

"Get your damn hands off of her," Steve snarled from her left. Natasha blanched and jabbed her teeth into her lower lip as one of the soldiers rammed the butt of his gun into Steve's lower back. He grunted, but of course the blow hardly fazed him, and when the astounded man tried it again, Steve whirled and snatched the rifle right out of the thug's hands. "Back off!"

Guns were cocked and lifted and the men pushed closer around them. Brushov pulled the vial from Natasha's shirt and then raised his hand to his soldiers. "Don't," he ordered calmly. He stared at Natasha a moment more, tormenting her, holding the vial up before her eyes as though daring her to snatch it from his thick fingers. She tried to slow her thundering heart, tried to stand strong and tall before him, but it wasn't easy. She'd never felt so disarmed, so naked and helpless. "I knew you would come back to me." He closed his hand around the vial and turned to Steve. "And I knew you would bring me what I want."

Natasha stiffened; the cold, arrogant expression of control on Brushov's face as he looked at Steve made her stomach roil. She knew that expression. She hated it. Almost as much as the look of confused dismay that contorted Steve's handsome features. "What?"

Something inside of her twisted and tightened until the pain in her chest was too terrible to breathe. _No. Please, no. _"Captain America," Brushov said. He didn't smile. "Finally I can meet the inspiration for my life's work. Though you are something of an… early model, measuring up to the world's first super soldier is a true sign of success."

Steve's face fractured further. He held the rifle tightly in his hands as though that could save either of them. He darted his eyes between Natasha and Brushov, a mounting glimmer of fear shining in them. "What the hell are you talking about? How do you know who I am?"

Brushov boldly stepped closer to Steve. They were nearly the same height. The general reached and grabbed the gun in Steve's hands. He yanked it toward his own chest. "Pull the trigger, Captain. Murder an unarmed man. You would be doing the world a favor, wouldn't you?"

Steve's finger tightened on the trigger of the rifle. His eyes narrowed. "Don't think I'm not considering it," he responded coldly.

Brushov's lips twisted in a hideous show of a smile. It was hardly anything, a small grin, but it spoke of evil. Natasha couldn't keep the cry inside as one of the men kicked her left knee. The cruel strike sent pain shooting up and down her leg. The gunshot wound in her other leg burned as the limb buckled, and she went down hard, barely getting her hands in front of her to stop her face from ramming into the cement floor. Steve's reaction was immediate, and he swung the gun at the men assaulting her. He stepped forward, but Brushov moved with him and kept the muzzle of the rifle firmly pressed to his own sternum. And all of the other soldiers surrounded Captain America, eagerly awaiting their general's order to take him down. Brushov eyed Steve like a man facing a challenge he desperately desired to best. "You could kill all of my men and me," he calmly said. "We would not be able to stop you. But you won't."

Natasha tried to curl in on herself, eyeing the watch and flailing to reach it with her other hand because this situation was beyond salvaging. But before she could grab it and signal the STRIKE Team, a boot slammed down on her wrist. She screamed in pain. Another two stomps shattered the watch and broke her hand. She wanted to cry.

"Leave her alone!" Steve ordered. He tried to move closer again, his eyes wide in horror and fury and worry, but he couldn't without engaging the men. Maybe that was what Brushov wanted, and even though Natasha's arm throbbed and her head spun she realized beyond a doubt that Steve would gladly fight them all, no matter the danger to himself, to save her. Part of her was somewhat relieved that the choice was wrested from him by the man hauling her up by her hair and pressing a gun to her forehead. But mostly she was furious that she was being used this way and terrified for them both.

Steve didn't even have to be asked. He looked into Natasha's eyes – _don't do this, Steve. Don't submit to them!_ – and drew a deep breath and set the rifle to the ground. Brushov's expression was unchanging, but Natasha knew him well enough to see his satisfaction. "Bring them."

They hauled her to her feet. Her bruised knee buckled instantly, but Steve pulled away from the men trying to restrain him and got to her side. "You okay?" he breathlessly asked. She only had a chance to nod, reaching in vain for his outstretched hand, before they yanked him back. He could have fought them – he _should_ have fought them – but he didn't because Brushov had already figured out how to control Captain America. Brushov had taught her everything she knew about lying and manipulation. He was truly a master of reading other people. He'd deduced it in a matter of moments something that Natasha had only recently discovered. Captain America's weakness was _her._

He wouldn't risk them hurting her.

They were manhandled further into the warehouse. Natasha was pushed along, limping beside Steve, trying her damnedest to seem strong and composed. She'd been in situations like this before, where her cover had been blown and she'd been found out and captured. There'd been numerous times, in fact, when her kidnapping at been part of her plan. She'd been in the hands of vile men, evil men, and played the victim, faked being helpless, manufactured tears and terror and pleas. And then she'd shattered the illusion and killed them. This time her fear, the panic coiled so tightly in her belly and the tears burning in her eyes… none of it was a façade. This time she was acting like she could handle this instead of pretending to be helpless. Brushov knew it, of course. She didn't want Steve to know, though. The more either of them realized the extent of her fear, the more of a liability she became.

Ahead there were more men, all armed with automatic weapons. They were mobbed around the center of the warehouse. Whatever Brushov's group had been moving looked to be already gone as the huge room was practically empty. She had the sinking suspicion that they were already too late to stop Brushov's plans. The men smiled and leered and parted to make way for the two prisoners as they were pushed and shoved forward. When they were finally stopped, Natasha felt any hope that this had _ever_ been anything other than a trap die inside her.

Petrovich knelt on the floor, Alexei standing beside him. The heavyset man was obviously scared witless, his pudgy hands working together in his lap, his face red and scrunched and covered in sweat and tears. Alexei loomed over him, a dark and violent threat, dressed entirely in black. He was taller and more muscular and darker than Natasha had known him to be. She shared a quick glance with Steve, who paled slightly at the disturbing image before them.

Brushov walked slowly toward Petrovich's quivering form. There was no theatrics. No attempt to mask what was coming or soften the blow. Brushov could be brutally frank. "You've served your purpose, old friend." In one swift motion, Alexei snapped Petrovich's neck. He nearly tore his head off.

Natasha held herself stiffly, fighting the urge to wince or shudder. The round body fell heavily to the ground, his head completely twisted around. She saw those hollow eyes staring vacantly upward before she could stop herself from looking. She'd killed men like Petrovich before, many men like Petrovich in fact. Tools that had been easily bent to the whims of the more powerful. This was the only time she was afraid to see one of them die, of what it meant. They'd been such goddamn trusting fools. She'd been a fool. She knew Brushov's tactics better than anyone. He never let people walk away from him. _Never._

Brushov watched as some of his men pulled the corpse out of the way. Alexei stepped closer to Brushov, who continued to coolly appraise his captives. "And now, Captain, I ask you to serve your purpose."

Steve's jaw was set stubbornly. "And what purpose is that?"

"A true test of what I have built. I have labored here in Crimea for years to construct the perfect weapon. The perfect soldier. One that is not beset by morality or conscience." His beady eyes flicked to Natasha. "Compassion is a weakness."

"You're insane," Steve declared. "I've seen this play out before. I've stopped men like you before. Whatever you have planned, it will fail."

Brushov wasn't at all interested in Steve's words. He stepped closer to Natasha. "Clearly you have forgotten your lessons, Natalia. After so many years of running from me, your weakness for your past has delivered you back to me. Your weakness for love." Natasha couldn't help but glance at Alexei, but his face was stony, pinched in hardly controlled rage. In hunger to _hurt_. Brushov reached forward, brushing his hand down her face. She felt more than saw Steve jerk taut beside her, but she refused to do the same, fighting every urge to recoil or flinch or show any fear. He would use her fear against her. "Ask it of me, and I'll teach you again."

"_You failed me, Natalia. Black Widow does not fail and Black Widow does not love. Perhaps you need a reminder. I'll teach you again."_

The memory charged across her mind, bringing pain that slashed through her already wavering equanimity. Her own anger broke free. "Never," she hissed.

Brushov never tolerated her defiance in the past, and he still wouldn't. He decked her roughly, her face ripping to the side and the men behind her grabbing her to hold her still. Instincts engrained in her youth, instincts that she thought long destroyed, kept her hands at her sides and her body pliant and unresponsive. She couldn't raise her eyes. She couldn't breathe. Brushov raised his hand to slap her again.

But the blow never came. She dared to look and found Brushov's hand clenched in Steve's midstrike. Steve gave a twist; something cracked, and Brushov staggered. Steve bore down on him, leveraging his crushing strength to push Brushov down. The man's face registered no pain, no fear, not even with Captain America glowering at him and standing over him and promising hell should this man threaten her again. He didn't know that Brushov could not be intimidated. "Release me, Captain."

Natasha swallowed the blood in her mouth, breathing quickly and once again fighting to hold still as guns were pressed against her temple and the back of her head and the small of her back. She summoned the bravery to look at Steve and found him torn and frustrated and increasingly uncertain of how to escape this. But he submitted, his fingers unfurling from Brushov's wrist clumsily as though it was physically difficult for him to force himself to let go. "Tell me what you want from me," he ordered, as if he had any power to dictate this situation. "And leave her out of this."

"You are incredibly protective of Natalia," Brushov commented. "You should not be."

Steve ignored him and tried to turn the conversation away from Natasha. "Tell me what you want," he demanded again. It was the logical conclusion to this whole thing. Brushov had crafted this plot and planted Petrovich to alert SHIELD knowing that Nick Fury would send Captain America to stop him. All of this, the easy infiltration to the hospital, the trail to this place and the almost inviting lack of security, had been a set-up. It had been the perfect lure: dangle the threat of a new and powerful super soldier serum in front of SHIELD's eager nose and wait for Fury to bite. Wait for Fury to send in his best. And all of that implied that they wanted something from Steve. "If it's the serum you're after, you're out of luck. It's–"

"I am not interested in the pitiful chemicals flowing through your veins," Brushov said sharply. "As I said, it is beset by morality. Weakness. What I have crafted knows only anger. I have bled away infirmity and nobility. There is great power in rage, in insanity, more power than you have ever imagined. The Red Guardian has no conscience to hamper him, no empathy to impede him. Anger removes restraint and insanity frees the strength within all of us to do harm like never before." Steve looked disgusted. "My serum is already complete."

Steve was confused and rattled. He shook his head. "If you don't want the serum, then why am I here?"

Brushov grunted in amusement, that vicious smirk coming back to his rough face. Suddenly he turned to the dozens of armed soldiers surrounding them. "Captain America wants to know why he's here! What do you think, comrades?" The men cheered, the cacophony of rough calls so loud that the words were indiscernible. Steve glanced about worriedly before settling his gaze on Natasha. He looked pale and more and more bothered by the second. That awful sense of foreboding torturing Natasha's stomach grew fouler and more nauseating. What the hell had she done? What the hell had she led them into?

"You tell him, Natalia," Brushov ordered. He looked back to her, cruel anticipation painted all over his face. "You know why. You have twice now delivered me what I have needed to see my dreams come to life."

Her blood turned to ice water. She didn't know why. And she didn't want Steve to think she did. She'd had nothing to do with this. She'd had nothing to do with this! Brushov was trying to pit them against each other. Her mouth hung limply open, Steve's blue eyes _broken_ in betrayal as he turned to her. She could see him struggling to have faith, to not believe Brushov, but she'd already hurt him enough. She'd already twisted the truth, lied about her secret mission objectives from Fury, lied about knowing Brushov and her past. How could he trust her now? "Steve, it's not true. I don't know what he wants!"

Alexei moved closer like a wraith sliding from the shadows. His eyes gleamed with lust. She saw him for what he truly was. The Alexei of her memories wouldn't hurt another soul unless he was defending her. The Alexei of her dreams had been soft and sweet and innocent, a young man who'd never known the power of love until he'd foolishly fallen for a dancer in his father's company. A young man who'd served his country as a test pilot, who enjoyed flying with a passion because it separated him from the harshness of Russian reality down on earth. A young man who'd had no idea the sort of nightmare into which he'd been thrust when he'd awakened Natasha's heart. He'd paid the price for loving her.

Now Steve would, too.

And then she realized. _A true test._ Her heart stopped. Her lips hardly moved as she whispered, "He wants you to fight him."

"What?"

"Speak up, Natalia."

The order was harsh and there was no room for disobedience. But she disobeyed anyway. Her heart was booming in her ears, her throat tight with panic. "Run! Get out of here! _Run!_"

The Red Guardian was before her in one mighty step, and again his hand closed around her throat. He lifted her from the ground like she was _nothing_, squeezing painfully at her neck. Natasha kicked and struggled, but all she could think was she was deserved to die. Those brown eyes devoured hers, cruel beyond compare.

Steve gave an angry shout as he rammed his fist into the Guardian's side. The vise-like grip on her throat was gone and she fell to the floor, the room spinning and her lungs burning. Immediately men grabbed her arms and pulled her back, giving her no chance to escape, no chance to do _anything_, as Steve ducked from a kick from his opponent. Brushov watched smugly as Steve caught the Red Guardian's next punch and threw him back with all his might. "No!" he yelled. He backed away, but the men were surrounding them in a circle, forming some sort of hellish fighting arena. He was trapped.

Brushov looked pleased. "Fight the Red Guardian. That is why I brought you here. Before I unleash my soldier upon the world, I must properly break him in. I must test him on his only worthy opponent. He is the answer to the United States' arrogance. He is my response to _you_."

Steve looked shocked and lost like that didn't make sense. Like he couldn't comprehend that this had come down to something so simple. This was what Brushov had wanted all along. A contest between his champion and SHIELD's.

The Red Guardian growled and lunged back toward Steve. The crowd of men roared in excitement. Natasha could only watch, horrified, as Steve tried not to fight. He dodged fast blows, twisting and turning nimbly, deflecting strikes that would have killed an ordinary man. Their moves were rapid, so fast they were difficult to trace, a dance of feints and blocks and punches and kicks. They met each other, blow for blow. It was incredible. It was terrifying. Eventually Steve grew more desperate, throwing all his strength behind a lucky punch that sent the Red Guardian sprawling. "Enough!" Steve yelled, turning to Brushov. "I won't!"

"Engage him, Captain," Brushov serenely ordered. The general had his arms folded over his barrel of a chest, watching the fight between him dispassionately. He looked disappointed. "Are you nothing more than a coward?"

The men laughed. Steve was breathing heavily, his hands clenched to fists at his side. He watched warily as the Red Guardian got to his feet. "No. You may control him but you don't control me. I'm not hurting an innocent man."

Brushov had the gall to chuckle. There was no humor in the sound. "Innocent? You have a child's view of reality. I turn the darkest parts of the human heart into the only parts that survive. I only remove restraint and allow the rage that was already there to run free. There is no innocence." His eyes turned to Natasha. "There never was."

Steve was helpless, breathing heavily, his eyes wide and speaking volumes of how much he didn't want to believe what was before him. But he was stubborn. "I won't fight him."

The men screamed in anger, guns turning again toward Captain America, and the Red Guardian stalked closer, his face twisted in ire that seemed to be growing irrationally and exponentially. Brushov was unfazed by Steve's refusal. He raised his hand to calm the situation. The Guardian stopped before Steve, but only just. His muscles clenched and his breath was a harsh hiss between teeth that were grinding themselves down. "Would it not be a better thing to destroy him now before he unleashes the power of his rage upon the world?" Steve's scowl hardened at that. Plying the death and suffering of innocents against Captain America was only a logical course of manipulation. But Brushov was never one to shy from excessive force. He pulled a handgun from the holster on his hip and took a step closer to Natasha. Natasha winced, the grips on her arms painfully tight, as she squirmed in helpless frustration. The tip of the gun came to rest at her forehead. "And you have no choice."

Steve looked to Natasha, a helpless frown of frustration and fear crossing his features. For a seemingly endless moment he stared into her eyes. For once, she couldn't read him. She couldn't see what he was thinking or what he was feeling. She wished more desperately than ever before to erase her mistakes. But she couldn't.

Steve sagged slightly in defeat. He balled his fists and dropped into a fighting stance and succumbed. Brushov wanted a fight between Captain America and the Red Guardian, and he'd made damn sure he was getting one. There was no negotiation of terms, no setting of limits and boundaries, of victory or fairness. Steve had to fight or Natasha would die. Steve had to win.

The men chanted and roared and shouted in anticipation. The Red Guardian smiled a huge, cruel smile, circling Captain America like a predator around its prey. Steve stayed light on his feet, moving with the Guardian, keeping his distance from both his opponent and the men encircling them. Natasha could only watch in fear for him. She knew Steve was strong and fast, probably the best combatant and martial artist in the world. He didn't tire. His tolerance for pain and damage to his body was beyond measure. But the Red Guardian seemed every bit as strong and fast and resilient. Steve didn't have his shield, and this situation was entirely intractable and forced. And Steve was not ruthless.

The Red Guardian's insanity reared, ugly and ferocious, and he charged. Steve dug his sneakers into the floor, ducking to avoid the blow and twisting around to deliver a powerful counter to the other's back. The Guardian screamed his rage, whirling and driving punch after punch toward Steve. Steve blocked them all, knocking them aside with lightning quick reflexes, but he lost ground, skittering back with the speed and force behind the strikes. He rolled at the last second to avoid running into the crazed men surrounding them. The Red Guardian moved as well, grabbing Steve's ankle and preventing his escape. Steve slammed his foot into the other's face in two fast kicks. The Red Guardian howled, and Steve lithely got to his feet.

Retaliation came swiftly, however, and the Red Guardian was up and on him again in a breath. He got close enough to land a punch to Steve's jaw, which was enough to daze him. The Guardian smiled maniacally as he wrapped his arms like iron around Steve's chest, pinning Steve's own arms to his sides. Steve struggled mightily to free himself. The Guardian dug his fingers into the gunshot wound on Steve's arm, ripping skin and tearing muscle and spilling fresh blood, but Steve only winced, flushed, his lips pulled back from his teeth in effort as he tried to prevent his torso from being crushed. Finally he snapped back his head into the Guardian's face and then threw his weight behind him, pushing up with his legs and using his opponent's chest as leverage to spring himself forward. He flung the Guardian over his shoulder, but the man landed on his feet and whirled, not even slowed. The next kick he launched Steve caught against his chest in cupped hands and shoved back. The Red Guardian stumbled. Steve leapt forward, driving down his fist across the other man's face. The Guardian staggered and nearly fell. The next strike resulted in an irate howl of pain as the Guardian went down to the floor, bruised and battered and bleeding, but he was up again in a blink.

They traded blows, fast and furious. No weapons. Brute strength against brute strength, muscles bulging and twisting and flexing, bodies moving faster than seemed possible. Endurance against endurance. Will against will. Neither of them appeared to have an advantage at first. However, as the fight wore on for a few torturous minutes, it became obvious Steve was purposefully holding back and staying on the defensive. The Red Guardian was wild and furious, punching and kicking with all his strength every time. Steve blocked and deflected the blows, occasionally returning a few of his own, but mostly he was biding his time. The Guardian was violent, impatient, and impulsive. His rage afforded him no control. Steve, on the other hand, was calm and patient. He was waiting for the other's aggravation and thirst for blood to lead to a mistake, and it did.

The Red Guardian snapped, his face covered in sweat and his eyes wild, as he swung hard and fast. Steve avoided it, grabbed the wrist as it flew past him, and twisted. He pulled the Guardian's arm around, the Guardian letting loose a howl of pain and frustration, and drove his knee into the other man's back. The Guardian's bloodied face snarled in absolute fury as he was forced to the floor, Steve yanking harder and harder up on his arm but pushing the rest of him down. The sickening snap of bones breaking resounded through the warehouse. The spectators screamed their dismay, fingers poised on triggers. Natasha could hardly breathe as she watched Steve restrain the Red Guardian who had been reduced to nothing more than a bucking, rabid animal. He wouldn't stop fighting, enraged beyond any semblance of cognizance. But Steve held fast, dragging the struggling form upward to wrap an arm around his neck and hopefully render him unconscious from asphyxiation. The Red Guardian's eyes fluttered and he gagged, spittle and blood dripping onto Steve's forearm as he choked him.

_Go down,_ Natasha thought fearfully, watching the tense scene. _Go down!_

If Brushov was at all upset at his champion's apparent loss, it wasn't obvious. "Kill him, Captain," he ordered. Steve looked up sharply, his bruised face covered in sweat, shaking with the incredible exertion required to keep the Guardian down. Brushov's eyes were even and emotionless. His asset seemed to mean nothing. His life's work reduced to a moment of leverage. "It is a fight to the death. He will not surrender and he will not stop. To win, you must kill him."

The Guardian gasped and coughed and finally got enough air into his lungs to scream. Steve held tight, eyes widening in dismay. He looked to Natasha for only a second, but that was all she needed to know he wouldn't do it. _He wouldn't do it._ And it was because of her. It was because he cared about her, and she cared about Alexei.

Natasha swallowed a dry sob building in her throat, shaking her head and wishing with every ounce of her soul that it had never come to this. That she had never told him about her lost love or tortured past. That she had never slept with him, never let him into her heart. Never let him love her. _Oh, God…_

Steve's grip must have slackened just enough for the Red Guardian to finally squirm his way free because the next thing she saw the monster was back on his feet, choking and laughing and sobbing at once and knocking Steve down with a powerful blow across the face. Steve spun as he was flung back a good ten feet across the hellish little arena, landing roughly on his left shoulder and sliding into the soldiers surrounding him. The men laughed and raved. She couldn't see through the legs and bodies and guns, but there was the sound of flesh striking flesh over and over again. "No!" Natasha screamed, struggling against the men holding her, but she was helpless. "No! That's not fair! This isn't a fair fight!" Like that mattered. Like anything she said or did mattered.

Brushov's low voice cut through the blood pounding in her ears. "Be still, Natalia," he ordered. He glanced at her only once before returning his vacant stare to the violent sight of his men beating Captain America. Some were flung aside, bones broken and bodies bent, but there were so many and they were all deranged. Brushov shook his head as though in remorse. "Watch. You need a reminder of why compassion is weakness."

Then Steve was thrown forcefully back toward the Guardian. He stumbled as he tried to get his feet under him, but the Guardian was faster than his recovery. He slammed his palm into Steve's face and then followed with a quick series of strikes to Steve's chest, dropping him again.

The tables turned and they turned quickly. Steve had been shaken, and now he was the one at a disadvantage. It was difficult to fathom the Red Guardian becoming faster or stronger or more violent, but it was as if sensing his opponent's weakness stoked the fires of his rage and thus the basis of his power. His injuries didn't matter. He was a machine, violent and purposeful. He rounded on Steve, fighting without repose, without mercy. Steve struggled to catch up, but he was hurt now, and he was showing it. His blocks were sluggish. His footwork was heavier. His reflexes were retarded. He was bleeding. The sight of blood and pain drove the Guardian more and more, a frenzy of blow after blow after blow, pummeling Steve until he could barely defend against all the hits. He countered, but he was weakening, and what should have been a devastating hit was hardly enough to slow the Guardian down.

Steve staggered, his right knee kicked out from under him. Bloody, curled fingers that would tear out his throat shot toward him, but he stopped them just in time, and it became a contest of strengths as the Red Guardian pushed down on him and he pushed back. Natasha could hardly stand to watch, her eyes burning with tears, increasingly fearful that this had become a fight Steve could not win. They were locked against each other for a seeming eternity, the Guardian's face hideous with blood and rage, Steve's clenched in pain and fear as he trembled in effort. Steve eventually managed to draw strength from _somewhere_ and gain the upper hand, shoving both his hands and the Guardian's back into the other soldier's chest. The punch to the gut toppled the Guardian but only for a moment. A foot slammed down into Steve's shin, breaking his leg with a sickening crack.

For the first time since the fight began, Steve screamed. Natasha screamed as well, shaking her head. Guns pointed at her, warning her to stay back, and a hand wove its way into her hair to keep her stationary. A hateful roar rose over the din, and the Guardian slammed his fist to the floor where Steve had been a breath earlier, shattering concrete and pulverizing it into dust. Steve scrambled away, unable to stand, and a blow to his back knocked him down again. Fast kicks to his midsection left him gasping and prone on the floor. He coughed and blood splattered from his torn lips.

Natasha shook her head in denial, watching with wide eyes as Steve weakly rolled over and tried to get his shaking arms beneath him to push himself to his feet. Blood covered the front of his torn shirt, slipping from his mouth as he fought for breath. And the Red Guardian, a nightmare covered in crimson and black, a hellish monster borne of an honorable man, loomed over him. He stalked closer, grabbed Steve by the hair, and lifted him to his knees so that he presented a better target. So that his shattered chest was exposed and vulnerable. Steve struggled, but his movements were sloppy and uncoordinated and futile. The Guardian smiled widely in repulsive glee and stood back before ramming his boot into Steve's sternum.

Steve fell limply to his back. He didn't move.

"No," Natasha whispered. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't happening. _No!_ "Steve, get up!" she screamed. The bent body sprawled in a pool of blood didn't respond. She couldn't even see if his chest was rising and falling, if he was still breathing. If he was still alive. "Get up! _Get up! Steve!"_

He didn't get up.

The soldiers cheered, rifles raised in triumph and biting exultation. Natasha couldn't stand it anymore, closing her eyes and bowing her head and weeping silently. "Natalia." A hand grabbed her chin, and her eyes snapped open in terror. The fingers were tight and cruelly squeezing. She breathed sharply through her nose, refusing to meet Brushov's gave even as he lifted her face and forced her gaze upward. "I told you to watch."

_Please don't make me…_ But her fear permitted no defiance. He permitted her no defiance. He knelt beside her, those cold fingers on her jaw and the hand in her hair holding her face forward. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The Red Guardian grabbed Steve by his shirt and his shorts and lifted him, nearly ripping his clothes of his body, and roughly flipped him to lay prostrate. "No," Natasha whispered, knowing what was coming. Knowing it and fearing it but she couldn't stop it – _stop it stop it do something! "No! Alexei!"_

The Red Guardian never heard her. He raised his leg and slammed his boot down over and over until he broke Steve's back.

Steve screamed again. His cry was ragged and halting when his lungs seized and failed him. He choked and sputtered, seizing against the floor. And then he was still.

"No!" Natasha wailed. _"No!"_

Brushov grunted. "How the mighty have fallen in a new age."

The Red Guardian lifted his arms, screaming and proclaiming his victory like a mad man, and the soldiers responded with an ear-splitting roar of their own. Natasha couldn't bear this any longer. She didn't care if they hurt her anymore, and in the men's distracted moment of elation over Captain America's defeat, she yanked herself away from their holds. She scrambled across the floor, her own damaged leg refusing to support her weight, and collapsed to her knees at Steve's side. "Steve?" she whispered. He didn't answer. He was shuddering, not quite conscious, suffering and barely breathing. Through the remains of his shirt she saw horrors, dark red and blue bruises and torn skin and his back, bones shattered and out of place. There was so much blood. So much damage. "Please… Wake up!"

She reached out her hand to touch his face, but she was yanked back. "No! No! Let go of me! Steve!" They didn't let her go, dragging her roughly across the floor even as she clawed and kicked and tried to dig her shoes into the smooth concrete. She was powerless. _"No!"_

Brushov was there, waiting for her. _"Tishina, Natalia. Privedite yeye."_ Natasha gasped a defeated sob. She'd never felt so lost, so helpless, so tortured in her life by something she couldn't change. They were leaving. Without a thought or word or care, they were taking her and leaving him to die.

They hauled her to her feet. The men marched away, pride and arrogance in their eyes, stepping around the bloody mess in the center of the warehouse floor like it wasn't there. Like it didn't matter. The Red Guardian left his victim, limping after the soldiers as they headed to the loading docks. The rage was gone. The insanity was _gone_. His face was calm beneath the blood and bruises, calm and cold and detached. A tool without a conscience. A weapon without compassion.

The heavy doors of the loading dock were opened. Outside more trucks were waiting, their engines already on and humming. Natasha struggled uselessly even though it was a lost cause, desperately trying to look over her shoulder at Steve as two men held her hands behind her back and led her away. He wasn't moving now, the mindless shivering of his broken body ceasing as the soldiers walked around him. Her face crumpled in agony and guilt and she looked away, fighting to hold herself together, to cling to the last shred of her own sanity.

Outside it was dark save for the flood lights shooting beams of harsh illumination over the yard. The men moved quickly, boarding the trucks, bound for the next stage of their general's plan whatever it was. Natasha didn't care. She bowed her eyes and silently wept as they roughly escorted her down the loading dock, across the yard, and through the gate.

Then she saw a glimmer of silver among the grass. She moved without thinking, stumbling with an unhinged show of grief and pain and falling to the ground on top of it. "Get up!" snarled one of the men irately. _"__Vstavay! Progulka!"_ They snatched her upward roughly and shoved her toward one of the trucks.

Up the ramp they went, and Natasha felt her world close in about her, shadows and sickness and pain. She was forced to sit on a long slab that passed for a bench beside Brushov, guns pointed at her. Her eyes filled with hot tears, tears that escaped and burned their way down her face. He looked at her in disapproval, his own eyes glimmering in barely restrained wrath that she had turned into someone so _weak_. "Enough. Black Widow does not cry."

The trucks rumbled away down the mountainside. When the echo of their engines faded, the silence of the night descended. Peaceful. Still. Serene. In the quiet, a small red light blinked and beeped among the blades of grass, softly calling for help.

* * *

_Opusti pistolet! Uberi svoi ruki vverkh! – _Put the gun down! Get your hands up!  
_Pryamo seychas! Poluchit' svoi chertovy ruki vverkh! – _Right now! Get your damn hands up!  
_Brosay oruzhiye! Seychas! – _Drop the gun! Now!  
_Tishina, Natalia. Privedite yeye. – _Silence, Natalia. Bring her.  
_Vstavay! Progulka! – _Get up! Walk!


	7. Chapter 7

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger, __Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, adult situations)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing and alerting! So now we get a glimpse into Natasha's (messed up) head. She hasn't exactly been herself so far… A tad irrational. A bit unhinged. And that's quickly going to become an understatement. Thanks for reading!

**RED RAIN**

**7**

_Steve._

He was inside her. Deep in her heart. Engrained into _every part of her_. She could feel the smoothness of his skin, the strength of his muscles, the power of his heartbeat. She could taste him, the softness of his lips tracing over her skin, the insistence of his mouth as he kissed her. She shared his breath, felt his desire. She swept her hands over broad shoulders, locking her legs around his hips, keeping him close to her. She wouldn't let him go. _She couldn't let him go._

But he was gone. Bones cracked and blood fell like rain, like red rain washing the Russian countryside. Steve stood in it. He was bathed in it. He was drowning in it. He was screaming to her, eyes wide in pain and terror, but his voice was lost in the storm. He was reaching for her, his hand outstretched, straining to touch her. Fighting for her. She couldn't reach him. Their fingertips brushed for a moment before the shadows took him away. Brushov was there, his eyes wild with his hunger for pain, unrestrained with a longing for her anguish. It wasn't Alexei he was dragging away from her now. They were taking Steve away. They were taking him away to hurt him. _No! Stay with me! Don't leave me! Steve!_

Natasha gasped as she opened her eyes. Terrified, she tried to lean up before her memories chased away the remnants of the nightmare and reminded her that she couldn't. Her arms were manacled behind her back and her ankles were bound tightly as well. The floor beneath her was metal and cement, hard and unforgiving to her aching body. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness around her, and other things came out of the haze of pain in her head. Brushov's men had tossed her in this small closet of an office after the convoy had reached Kerch. Natasha had gotten only a quick glance as they'd pulled and dragged her struggling form out of the back of one of the trucks and toward the rusty, metal buildings that served as the headquarters of a shipping company. Two older Russian battle ships were moored, and Brushov's men had been busily loading crates aboard them. They were the same metal cases and cartons they had been transporting from the warehouse. Weapons were moved as well, trucks full of guns and RPG launchers and high-powered assault rifles. There were also computers and boxes brimming with files. A helicopter sat atop the deck of one of the vessels, and men were working to secure it. Clearly Brushov was packing up his entire operation and moving out of Crimea. Kerch was a large shipping area, and the docks had been thriving and busy. Many Russian ships, military and commercial, were docked. SHIELD had been wrong; this had never been about Brushov getting into Crimea to get something he wanted. It had all been about getting _out_. The unrest in Ukraine and Crimea was providing ample cover for Brushov to transport his serum out of the country.

Now that it had been tested and validated, there was no longer any reason to wait. Natasha's charged breath was so loud in the silence that she could hardly stand it. She curled in on herself, her injured hand and leg throbbing in renewed pain as she brought her knees toward her forehead. It was difficult to tell how many hours had passed in this tiny, dark hell, but she knew it had been at least a day since the fight at the warehouse. If Rumlow had received the extraction signal, the STRIKE Team would have rescued Steve hours ago. If he was still alive. If he had survived the brutal beating the Red Guardian had unleashed upon him. She didn't want to think about that. She didn't want to think about how he had looked, covered in blood and bruises, limp and lifeless on the floor, when she'd been taken prisoner. She didn't want to think about his strong, proud form destroyed like that. It had been some stroke of twisted luck that she had spotted Steve's watch outside the warehouse. He'd probably lost it while climbing the fence. She could only pray that he'd be found, that Rumlow would get him out of this nightmare and to the medical care he so desperately needed. She could only pray that they would save him and take him home. She could only pray, so she did, deeply and frantically and for the first time in a great many years. And she shook and shivered, despite the fact it was uncomfortably warm inside the office in which they'd locked her. She trembled in fear because she was Brushov's captive and he would surely pull her back into the hell from which she'd escaped. She shivered in misery because she was as helpless to save herself as she had been to save Steve. What happened to her didn't matter now; none of it mattered so long as Steve was safe. She kept trying to tell herself that. It was the noble thing to think. It was the selfless thing to think.

But she wasn't selfless. Not in the least. She didn't think she ever had been. She'd had plenty of time to think, bound and alone as she was. She realized right away that she had made one mistake after another, blindly and foolishly and _stupidly_. From the moment she'd seen Brushov's face during the mission briefing, she'd been out of control. Those dark eyes had awakened things in her, things that had terrified her, shaken her core, left her lost and reeling and confused. Fury's encoded message to her that she'd read before they'd left DC had done even more damage. _"Bring back the serum. Don't let Rogers stop you." _The cold fear and angry pain she'd felt at those words had struck her hard and deep. Fury was pitting her against her partner because he knew as well as she did that Steve would never agree to take the serum on behalf of SHIELD. She'd spent the entire flight from DC to Crimea wondering how to face this because the things she'd normally do (lie and manipulate or flat-out leave and attempt the mission on her own) weren't an option with Steve. Fury probably hadn't known how deep and muddled her feelings for Steve truly ran, and she hoped he wouldn't have asked her to do this unless he himself had been forced by those higher in the chain of command. But she couldn't be sure, and she was furious that she'd been put in that position.

Everything was a mess. Everything was knocked loose and useless. _Everything. _She didn't know who she was anymore or what she wanted. The lines between good and bad, between right and wrong, between loyalty and lust, between Black Widow and Natasha were blurring so badly that she couldn't see straight. All her covers and lies and bad memories and wants were at war with each other, and in this bloody battle there were so many casualties. So many goddamn _mistakes_. She could have told Steve the truth about Brushov and why Fury had really sent them into Crimea, but she hadn't. It wasn't in her nature to trust, to let anyone inside her heart. She could have left Steve behind in Yalta, but she hadn't. She'd needed him too much, both for protection against the Red Guardian and because of how she felt for him. She could have called for extraction – all the times she should have _called for extraction_ – but she _hadn't_. She'd been afraid of Brushov, but more than that, she'd been afraid of what SHIELD would do to Alexei. Finding an enemy super soldier would have guaranteed military action of some sort, and knowing Fury and the World Security Council as she did, they would have left nothing to chance. Alexei would be killed, of that she was certain. The guilt was so strong she could hardly stand it. This was her fault, what had happened to him, and she needed to fix it somehow. Leaving him behind again in the hands of her trainer and tormentor hadn't been an option. Steve expected better of her. She expected better of herself.

She was lost. There was no escape. All of these mistakes had compounded upon themselves, leaving a horrid trail of terror and pain and blood. And that wasn't even the worst of it.

She choked on a dry sob.

The worst thing was she'd slept with Steve to make herself feel better. She'd slept with him because she'd wanted him, wanted to make him hers. She was lying to herself about when her emotions had started to get the best of her. It had been back in his apartment when she'd seen those letters and felt the uncomfortable and bitter hurt of _jealousy_. Maybe it had been just a touch of irrational envy, but that had grown, too. The thought that another woman had loved him, and that he loved her, was more painful than it should have been and she hated him and herself for it. But she knew how to get what she wanted. And after she'd taken him, she'd used him, twisting the worry and compassion she'd seen in his eyes to get him to help her. She'd done the easy thing, the familiar thing, what she had been built to do. She'd made him love her and then used him. Betrayed him. It didn't get more despicable than that. She wanted to cry but the tears wouldn't come. She was so damaged, so fundamentally screwed up, that even a normal human reaction to the guilt creeping about her heart was impossible. And it got even _worse_, these things she'd done. She'd slept with him and then let him sacrifice himself for her. She'd slept with him and then _hurt_ him.

This felt like the most terrible thing she had ever done, and she had done many, _many_ terrible things.

And now she was afraid. Afraid for Steve. Afraid for what Brushov planned to do with his newly tested super soldier and the serum he'd used to create him. Afraid for herself. She hadn't been afraid for herself in years. The last time had been in the face of the Hulk's rage in the bowels of the helicarrier during the war with Loki. That had been a sudden, panicked terror, raw and visceral but thankfully short-lived. She'd overcome it easily enough. This, however, was an entirely different monster. It had come to life the moment she'd seen Brushov's face as a small blast of dread, and it had done nothing but grow since then, gaining size and momentum and power with every shallow beat of her heart. She knew better than anyone the miseries of which Brushov was capable. For so long she'd kept it all inside, the trauma and the abuse and the degradation, the things he'd done to her to turn her into his weapon. She had never admitted it, not even to Clint and certainly not to Steve, but she wasn't even certain how much of it was real, what was truth and nightmare and lie and the gray areas between. When Clint had pulled her out of that life, she'd buried it all down so deep to keep herself sane and free. He'd shown her how. He'd saved her in every way she needed to be saved, and he hadn't had to. He'd been sent to terminate her. He'd fought her, pinned her, and disarmed her. He'd had his bow on her, ready to make the killing shot. She'd spat at him and demanded he do it. Had their roles been reversed, she knew she would have.

But he'd seen beneath Black Widow and found something salvageable, something worth giving another chance. Something beyond the seductress and assassin. A spark of life, of loyalty, of honesty and integrity and everything necessary to fight for good and justice. Alexei had seen it. And Steve had seen it, too.

However, if Brushov saw it, he would destroy it. She knew it. A part of her wanted to destroy it herself out of fear of the pain she knew she would face. She tried to think of Clint, of the things he'd taught her to stay strong in the face of her demons. Ways to stay pure, to stay on the right path and not deviate back into darkness because it was easy or more familiar or more alluring. All of her training, the treatments Brushov had tried, the mental manipulation he'd used, the men with whom she'd slept and then killed to learn how to seduce and murder better, was begging her to acknowledge to whom she belonged. Natasha drew a deep breath, battling against that monster clawing within her at her heart. She could feel it gaining ground. It already _had_ gained ground. With every single mistake she'd made, it had grown stronger. Maybe she hadn't meant for any of this to happen, but it had all the same, like it had all been fate. Inevitable. Cause and effect. Her fear of Brushov alone was potent enough to wear down the defenses she'd spent so many years building up. She was losing control, her breaths coming faster and faster and more and more ragged, anxiety and panic making her pulse race. She needed to focus on something, on _anything_ other than the murderer she knew to be lurking in the shadows.

_Steve._

Her heart slowed in its agonized pounding. Her breathing calmed. She let the memory of their night together rush over her, warm and more precious than anything she'd ever known. It was a soothing balm, and suddenly the panic and terror was more manageable. Maybe it had been just one night, unexpected and fast, but she realized that it went beyond that. It went back months, back to when she'd been called into Nick Fury's office in the Triskelion to find Captain America decked out in a new blue uniform with a new purpose in his eyes and waiting to meet his new partner. It was the culmination of all this time spent working with him, fighting alongside him on countless missions and special ops, respecting his orders and trusting his choices. It was all the small moments she'd flirted with him and teased him and caught him watching her and taught him about the future. It hadn't just been release. It was everything. Underneath it all, that hadn't been a lie. What she felt for him _wasn't_ a lie, even if only she knew it. At that moment, it was the only thing she was certain she knew. At that moment, it was the only thing tethering her to what she'd become in the face of everything she had done. It felt disingenuous to let herself have these thoughts and memories and wishes in the face of everything she'd done to him. But she did.

_Selfish._

If they both came out of this alive, she wondered if he would ever trust her again. It was probably not worth worrying about. Brushov would never let her go back to him.

The door opened. The Red Guardian stared down at her. Terror and hatred flooded through her, washing away the fleeting touch of peace she had found. She expected cruelty. She expected rage and violence and that wrathful glare that perpetually twisted his face. However, his expression was completely calm, and his dark eyes were empty. He almost looked like Alexei, but Alexei had never been so emotionless. Was this what he was? A monster made of extremes? Violent and cruel in one moment and dead on the inside in another? He still didn't seem to recognize her. A decade spent in Brushov's hands could redefine one's perception of reality, one's sense of self. Maybe he couldn't remember her or what they'd shared. "Up," he barked roughly. It was the first word he'd truly said. She couldn't recall what his voice had sounded like, but it hadn't been like this. Not rough and uncaring. She didn't move, _couldn't_ move, and he lost his patience. He stalked inside the room and grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. "Up."

She stood stiffly, fighting not to be afraid, to keep her breathing under control and her posture as straight and tall as she could manage. He crouched and unlocked the cuffs around her ankles. The second her legs were free, she yanked up her knee into his face, but he was much faster. He grabbed her calf hard. The press of his fingers was painful, like bolts of metal driving through her skin and muscle to bend her bones. "Don't," he warned. He kept his grip tight for a second longer, watching uncaringly as she winced, before releasing her and rising smoothly to his impressive height again. Then he took her arm roughly and pulled her out into the hallway.

He forced her to match his long and purposeful strides even though she limped. She fought to stay in control of her emotions, but a storm of so many things spun inside her. That Russian countryside. The months of peace they'd had together. She'd never known such contentment before, freedom from the life she'd led. It was the first time she'd realized things could be different, better, softer and sweeter and full of emotion. Her body had been hers to give to whomever she chose. Her mind had been free. Her heart had been his. Lazy mornings in bed, Alexei beside her, drawing circles on her bare back with his finger, teasing her and laughing. The small town in which they'd chosen to hide, full of simple folk with simple dreams. The old car she'd stolen. Driving. Swimming in a lake warmed by summer. Making love and dreaming of the future. She'd never had a future before. These things came over her from the shadows, bright and sunny and true. But then she opened eyes that had slipped shut and looked to him.

There was nothing left. That shame came back, the same shame and fear that had kept her from calling for help. She needed to understand him. She needed to reach him, to get through to him. _She needed to save him. _"Do you remember me?" she asked softly in Russian. He didn't acknowledge her, didn't even look at her, but the hand on her arm tightened even more to the point where it was bruising. She faltered, afraid of his retaliation, but she went on after gathering her battered courage. "I'm Natalia. Natalia Romanova. I was…" _Your lover. Your friend. Your wife. _Her voice cracked in barely restrained emotion. "You called me your ballerina."

He said nothing. They reached the door of the building. Men with guns waited for them. Their wild eyes were hungrily appraising her. Natasha pulled herself taut, desperation driving icy stakes into her heart. "Alexei, don't you remember me?"

He turned finally. His eyes were filled with that anger again, that rage that had murdered his soft and beautiful spirit, but it somehow different. Muted. Mixed with grief and hurt. _Betrayal. _She saw torture and pain and things that should never come forward from the blackness. She saw _him_, but he was maimed nearly beyond recognition. "I remember you," he answered.

At first something inside Natasha burst with hope. But when he said nothing more, nothing to reach out to her, it died painfully. She wanted to cry, but again the tears wouldn't come. "You don't have to do this," she said with as much strength and confidence as she could muster. "There are ways out. You don't have to listen to him anymore. Whatever he's done to you, we can fix it. I promise you."

Alexei's eyes were fiery. There might have been a spark of something. But it was quickly suffocated. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

Natasha shook her head. "You loved me," she whispered. "Don't you remember?"

An iron hand shot out and grabbed her by the neck again, trapping her words in her throat. The flash of fury in his eyes wasn't the wild and deranged glint she'd seen before when he'd attacked her in the hospital lab or when he'd murdered Petrovich or when he'd fought Steve. This was cognizant. Directed. Directed at her. He _did_ remember. And he blamed her. "I don't love," he snarled. "And neither do you."

He dragged her outside into a warm night and then tossed her to the ground. Natasha winced as her hip slammed into the dock. Alexei allowed her no repose, yanking her up by her hair until she got her feet beneath her. Then he hauled her forward, across the dock toward one of the two ships. The other was pulling away, the men and dock workers releasing the huge mooring lines. Natasha closed her eyes in defeat. Part of her, the part not buried in guilt and still tied to duty, had been holding out that Rumlow and the STRIKE Team would somehow discover Brushov's plots and stop them. Once those ships got out to sea, it would be more difficult to trace them, let alone catch them.

But she couldn't spare much time worrying about that. Flanked by the armed men, Alexei hauled her near the loading ramp of the second ship. Brushov was there as well as a wiry man dressed in an expensive suit. Garanin. They were speaking quietly to each other, congratulatory even. Where Brushov was cold and unyielding, Garanin was soft-spoken and seemingly gentile. But they both shared a love of power. Garanin eyed her as they approached. He looked pleased, like a man who'd lost something valuable a long time ago and had now found it again much to his amazement. He said nothing as Alexei dragged her up the ramp to the ship. "The customers will be waiting in Volgograd."

"And the money?"

"Already in the account."

Natasha was more surprised than she should have been. Brushov was selling the serum. He was selling it to the evil of the world. That explained why Garanin had been involved. That explained why he wanted it out of Crimea. "Good. Very good. I will see you in a week." Garanin nodded and joined a group of other men in suits. Brushov spoke lowly to the few of his thugs that remained but then followed Alexei and Natasha.

Natasha glared at him and dug her shoes into the ramp, not caring if Alexei ripped her arm out. It was too much. This wasn't right. Brushov was, if nothing else, a man chained to his own principles. It had _never_ been about acquiring something so petty as wealth. He had done everything he ever had for power. Money was an important part of that, but money was not power. Nor was land or weapons or authority over governments. Fear was power. The capability to take out _anyone_ _anywhere_ was power. This serum was power. Selling it seemed wrong and uncharacteristic. Greedy.

Brushov's thick lips turned in amusement under his mustache. It was like she could read her mind. It always had been like that. "I thought better of you, Natalia."

"So it's all about money," she said lowly. She felt more emboldened than she had in days, than she ever had in front of him. It was obvious why, even in the twisted mess of emotions crippling her. She felt betrayed. All of the things he'd forced into her head… Lies to cover lies. And what had happened to Steve was goddamn quality assurance on a brand new product.

Brushov grabbed her arm and her legs buckled at the contact. He pulled her the rest of the way up the ramp and onto the deck of the ship. It was an older vessel, some sort of modified battle cruiser that was coated in chipped and rusty dark grays and greens. It was sizeable but well-used and weather-worn. The ship was equipped with numerous gun turrets that had been updated to new technology. There was a cargo hold that the tall bridge overlooked. Atop one set of sealed doors the black helicopter was secured to the deck. And through the others she could see into the hold below.

There were rows and rows and rows of those cases. Hundreds of them, far more than what could have been transported by the convoy from the warehouse. Natasha felt her breath lock in her throat. The thud of something to the deck drew her attention, and she turned to see a few of the soldiers drop one of the cases. The latches were undone. Inside there were dozens of vials, each containing the serum. The bright flood lights upon the ship's deck caught the ruby liquid inside. Natasha turned her alarmed gaze back to the cargo hold. There was enough serum aboard this ship to create an army ten thousand strong. And this was one ship of two.

"This is not about money," Brushov corrected. He reached behind her; Natasha jerked in surprise, stiffening involuntarily, but he only slipped the key into the handcuffs around her wrists and unlocked them. She pulled her newly freed hands to her chest. The wrist that had been damaged was red and swollen and throbbing with renewed circulation. Brushov's hands fell to her shoulders, firm and rough, curling over her blood-stained sweatshirt possessively. "It is about legacy. It is about the years I spent, molding you and training you. Teaching you how to find that place inside of you. Do you remember, Natalia?" His breath was a warm caress to the nape of her neck as he swept her tangled hair away. "That place where you cannot feel."

"I won't go back there," she swore.

He grunted a chuckle. "No, you won't. All those long years I spent teaching you to find the darkness in your heart… The Red Room. Those years were wasted. You alone survived my program, and in the end, you failed." She winced as those fingers dug into her shoulders. _Black Widow does not fail_. "But I learned from my mistakes. Killing the spirit is not possible. I tried and tried with you, believed I had succeeded with you, and it took only a single glance from a silly boy to fill your heart with love." Natasha closed her eyes. "I realized the spirit must be refined, purged of anything save the driving inclination to cause pain. Ruthlessness cannot come from apathy, from nothingness. It must come from rage. That is what my serum does. It creates insanity. And that is all it does."

Natasha turned, her brow furrowed in confusion, her heart aching in her chest. She glanced from Brushov to Alexei, Alexei who was as strong and tall and muscular as Captain America. Alexei who'd been injured badly in his fight with Steve but was healing only a day later, the wounds now faded bruises and scabbed-over cuts. Alexei hadn't been like this before. He'd only been a man before. She didn't understand. If this insanity serum wasn't a super soldier serum, then how…

"I have developed a poison that can rid the mind of restraint. It drives logic and morality and compassion away, leaving only the basest of emotions. Jealousy. Grief. Envy and anger. It amplifies these things, the bad memories, the painful parts of us all, until our demons are all that remains. And then the psychosis becomes consuming." Brushov watched as his soldiers pulled a few of the vials free. Another man approached with a smaller case. Inside that was a set of hypodermic needles. "Unfortunately, the effects are transient."

One of the men screwed a thin, lengthy needle on top of one of the syringes. Then he took a vial and jabbed the needle through the top, drawing the serum inside. "Over time the serum's influence becomes more long-lasting and the soldier becomes more controllable, but it still is not permanent. Regular injections are required. The withdrawal process can be deadly. My customers will undoubtedly learn of this the hard way, and then they will realize how dependent upon me they truly are. I will control them. And once my serum floods the world, there will be armies of violent men, desperate to ease their madness. Desperate to quench their thirst with blood."

The breadth of what Brushov intended was becoming clear. He wasn't selling super soldiers. He was selling mad men addicted to his drug. Natasha wasn't sure which was worse. All she knew for certain was that he needed to be stopped. SHIELD needed to stop him. But one of SHIELD's best assets was gravely wounded, maybe even dead, and miles and miles away, and the other had no way to call for help.

The man with the needle approached Alexei and then jabbed it into his forearm. He depressed the plunger. Natasha observed the horrid scene before her in fear, waiting, unable to breathe. In a matter of seconds, that calm emptiness in Alexei's eyes was gone. That slightest hint of him was lost. In a matter of seconds, the monster was back.

"As for the Red Guardian…" Brushov's voice was a low rumble against her ear. "He is a weapon for Russia. A weapon that beat Captain America. He is priceless. And he is mine."

The Red Guardian ground his teeth hard enough that she could hear his jaw crack. His muscles twisted and contorted under his black shirt as his hands balled into crushing fists at his side. He was shaking. That wild, hungry gleam returned to his eyes. He was lusting for pain and suffering. Lusting for blood. _No! Please, don't do this to him…_ The effects grew stronger over time, more permanent. More devastating. _Withdrawal was deadly._ The pain in her heart was punishing. She watched the Red Guardian rage like a beast with that poison surging through his veins and realized that hope was futile. Alexei was gone. Alexei was dead. She could never bring the man out of the monster. The man _was_ the monster.

And compassion was a weakness. It had cost them everything.

Brushov was nothing if not perceptive. "You realize the truth now," he said. "He is beyond redemption. Beyond escape. Even if he could leave me, he would die."

Natasha could hardly contain her own fury. "You vindictive bastard," she hissed. Her eyes stung as she stared at Alexei, his face twisted and tortured and covered in sweat. "Why did you do this to him? Why him?"

"I didn't do this to him," Brushov calmly stated. "You did." His face was stern, but she recognized the glint of sadistic anticipation in his eyes. "I should have killed you when you betrayed me. I would have had it not been for him. He offered me the one thing I needed in return for sparing your life. Himself."

Things came from the red haze in her mind. Things she had made herself forget. Things she could _never remember. _They were dragging her away from Alexei. Their life together was burning, all her ridiculously impossible hopes and fantasies destroyed in a single, fiery moment. Brushov would kill her. She had left him, run away, failed in her mission and betrayed her training. His punishment would be fast and cruel. Tears had blurred the world, tears and smoke and flames and then rain, and she'd watched Alexei come forward, his hands up, all the fight gone from his eyes. _"If it's me you want, I'll come without a fight. Just don't kill her. I love her. Please."_

"No," she whispered. "That's not…"

"Not what? Not true? You delude yourself with your own fantasies. You have grown soft and weak. Your time with SHIELD has ruined you, but I can bring you back. I can restore you."

"No!"

Brushov's lips twisted in an unamused grin. "When have you ever been able to stop me? Such insolence. You need to remember your place."

In her distraction, she hadn't noticed the man with the syringes prepare another one. He stepped forward, the needle grasped between his fore and middle fingers, his thumb poised on the plunger. Her heart stopped in her chest, her eyes widening in dawning realization and then miserable panic. The serum fell in ruby droplets to the ship's deck from the needle's tip. "No," she whispered. She whirled and made to fight. Tried to run. "No! _No!_"

But the Red Guardian was behind her. His hands grabbed her arms and pinned them to her sides. Natasha struggled with every ounce of strength she had, but he was too strong, too capable. In one large hand he held both hers behind her back. His other snaked around her chest, huge and unmovable, and moved up to wrap around her neck, enough to restrict her airway but not kill her. She lifted her chin and pushed her teary eyes skyward. The night was so thick and black above, an infinite sable sea without the light of the stars or the moon. Natasha winced and tried not to cry. She was helpless. _She was helpless._

"You are also mine, Natalia. You always have been and you always will be." The Guardian gripped tighter. He wanted to crush her. Maybe he would. "Not SHIELD's. And not Captain America's. He saw you for what you really are, the way I have always seen you."

"No," she moaned, trembling. Blue eyes, broken in betrayal. "You lied to him! I didn't know what you wanted! I didn't bring him to you! _You lied to him!"_

"Not as much as you lied to him. And not as much as you have lied to yourself. I know your work, Natalia. Did you think you could hide your sins from me? I could see what you did to him. I taught you how. You sell your body to the men who love you, and they sell themselves to me to save you. That is who you are. Who I made you to be."

_"No!"_ That needle came closer and closer. Natasha choked on her breath. "_Please…_ Don't! Don't do this to me! I won't go back to you! I won't! Stop!"

Brushov hissed, "No one can make me stop."

She felt the needle stab into her arm. The Red Guardian held her so tightly that there was absolutely no hope of moving. Her skin stung as the serum was injected. As she was violated again.

At first, there was nothing. Alexei, firm and unyielding behind her. Brushov, cruel and proud before her. The sky, black and vast above.

But it worked fast. Her heart started to pound so loudly and so quickly that it was all she could hear, all she could feel. Her skin crawled, itchy and electrified with uncomfortable phantom sensations. Hands that weren't there. Ghosts. She couldn't breathe fast enough. The serum burned its way through her, agony and fire and hatred, boiling her blood and searing her flesh. She wanted to scream. She didn't know if she did. Her racing heart beat and beat and beat, pumping the poison all around her body, until it reached her brain. And then the things that had been seeping from the shadows, that had been dripping through the cracks in her psyche, that had been escaping the cage of her control, _exploded_.

Violation. Rage. Madness. Violence and chaos. People screaming. Screaming and crying and burning alive. Fire ripping through the hospital. She didn't care. Dreykov's daughter, no more than a child walking at her father's side. She didn't care. Her finger was taut on the trigger of the sniper rifle. Men using her, abusing her body and her mind. Rough kisses and rougher terror. Men laughing. She would destroy them. Money. Sao Paolo, a marketplace teeming with innocent people, and her gun cutting through them and bringing them down like they were nothing. So much red. Blood. Knives in her hands and then buried in flesh. Bullets ripping through her body. Fighting. Destruction. Pain. Murder. Slaughter.

_Kill them all._

Like a fire, the serum spread through her mind. It burned everything it touched, devouring the good and strengthening the bad. Destroying who she was, who she had so desperately tried to be, and leaving only who she had been. Nobody could save her now. The trauma fed the monster growing in her mind. The terrible things fueled it, emboldening it, powering it. And there were so many terrible things. The things she'd done. The things that had been done to her. _So much red._ She was drowning in it. She couldn't breathe. She was drowning.

_Steve._

He was inside her, the only good left inside her. He was so strong, so beautiful and pure, that the fire couldn't take him. It wouldn't take him. She wouldn't let it take him! He was reaching toward her, his eyes wide in terror and pain. He was trying to get to her, trying to protect her. Trying to save her. She needed him to save her. _Stay with me! Don't let me go! Please don't leave me! _

Their fingertips brushed, but the red grabbed him, coiling and curling around his body and dragging him away. He screamed. She did, too.

_Steve!_

He was gone. Taken. Burned alive. And the insanity was all that remained.

"Welcome home, Black Widow."


	8. Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger, __Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, adult situations)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Steve's not going to let the Red Guardian knock him down. Captain America is far too awesome for that… ;-). Enjoy!

**RED RAIN**

**8**

Steve's climb to consciousness was long and unpleasant. His heart was demanding that he wake up and go back to the world, but his mind and body weren't ready or willing. Down in the darkness, things didn't hurt so much. Down in the darkness, he couldn't feel the pain, the pain that went deeper than broken bones and lacerated flesh and all the damage that had been done to him. He was shielded, protected, safe from the things he'd left behind that he knew were excruciating. Safe from her. Eventually, though, light pierced the shadows, light that he couldn't ignore, and with the light fragments of memories poured into his empty sanctuary. He couldn't stay down.

_"Get up. Get up! Steve, get up!"_

He groaned, a low, hoarse, alien sound to his ears. His eyes fluttered open, and the first hints of light were too bright and too much and the dizziness nearly drove him back to the blackness. But he was stronger than this and more stubborn, so he tried again. This time he managed to keep his eyes open long enough to realize he was some place other than the warehouse. He wasn't lying on unforgiving and uncomfortable concrete. And the pain wasn't as horrendous as he'd been anticipating. That was a small comfort, at least. A very small one.

Steve released a slow, shaking breath, blinking away tears that had been trapped beneath his eyelids. Above him was a light gray ceiling made of textured tiles. He was lying on a cot of some sort that was a little too small and thus a bit uncomfortable for his large frame, and he was covered in a light blanket. Something was stuck to his wrist, and he wearily lifted his arm to find an IV taped to his skin. The line was connected to a pole stationed beside the cot. Fading daylight streamed through a window on the other side of the small room. Against the wall there was an array of idle medical equipment. He smelled warm, humid air that had that tang of the sea and realized he was still somewhere in Crimea. He grimaced, summoning some measure of bravery and composure, and tried to lean up. His chest and abdomen and arms and head (hell, pretty much _every_ part of his body) throbbed in fiery misery, but he gasped and moaned his way through it, gripping the metal sides of the cot until the support bars bent. Still, he succeeded in getting himself upright. More or less.

The room was spinning. He swallowed the uncomfortable nausea that clenched his throat and panted and stayed absolutely still until the vertigo abated. When he felt sure he wasn't going to be sick, he chanced opening his eyes again. He recognized this place. Outside the window the SHIELD quinjet was sitting in the warehouse lot, bathed in the light of the setting sun. He heard familiar voices. This was one of the rooms attached to the safe house in Sevastopol. This was where he had changed from out of his uniform and into the attire of a young man on an exciting European vacation with his girlfriend. If he was back here, that could only mean the STRIKE Team had rescued him.

Relief rushed over him. He sagged, the strain of sitting upright becoming too much for his damaged middle, but he refused to let himself lie back down. He felt miserably sore, a sharp ache radiating from his chest all through his abdomen and down his legs. Layers and layers of protective bandages and supportive wrappings encircled his torso. His left leg from his knee downward was splinted. His skin was black and blue everywhere he looked, deep bruises and healing scrapes covering his body. And the worst of his pain was shooting along his back, bolts of lightning that raced along his tortured nerves all the way up to the base of his throbbing skull and all the way down to his hips. With each moment he stayed upright, it grew and augmented and exploded into a hellish torture that gained ground on his endurance until he could barely stand to suffer through it. He summoned some measure of strength and tried to turn around to look at what had happened to him and was more than a little terrified to realize that he _couldn't_.

Memories slashed through the fog in his head. The Red Guardian. Fists ramming into his chest. Falling. Something slamming into his back over and over again. And then agony.

Steve swallowed through a dry throat, tears bleeding through eyes he'd closed. But he raised a trembling hand and wiped them away, forcing himself to breathe deeply until the pain was tolerable. What had happened felt to be too enormous to face, let alone accept, like some sort of twisted nightmare that couldn't be real so long as he didn't believe it was. Everything was a jumbled mess in his head. And then he remembered. "Natasha," he whispered.

The door to the room opened. Rumlow walked in carrying a tablet computer. He looked up from his work and spotted Steve sitting in the cot. He shook his head in alarm and quickly made his way across the room, setting the tablet atop of one of the carts near the wall. "You shouldn't be up, Cap. Lay back down."

Steve drew a deep breath to calm the strained pace of his heart. He refused to oblige the other man, overwhelmed with worry and fear and such a mess of emotions. _Natasha…_ "Where's Romanoff?"

Rumlow didn't look pleased with the question. "Lay down. The docs spent eight hours trying to put you back together. You wanna mess that up? You need to rest."

Steve flashed angry eyes at the STRIKE commander. "Where is she?" he demanded.

Rumlow shook his head, recognizing in frustration and concern that his requests weren't going to be met. He sighed shortly. "We were hoping you could tell us. We got the extraction signal, but when we arrived all we found was you beat to all hell alone in a warehouse. There was no sign of Romanoff."

Steve closed his eyes at that, his fears confirmed. Frustration and worry burst through him, leaving him trembling in a cold, miserable sweat. "They took her," he muttered. He was furious with himself, furious for having lost that fight. For having let her go. She was in the hands of evil of the worst sort, a man who'd twisted her and tortured her and turned her into a murderer, and he'd let that happen. "Brushov took her."

Rumlow looked doubtfully at him, and a small voice of dissension asked the question he couldn't bear to be asked. _You sure about that?_

He wasn't. Not anymore. Not since Natasha had lied to him over and over again. Lied about Brushov and Shostakov. Lied about why Fury had sent her on this mission. Had she lied about… _No._ She wouldn't have betrayed him like that. She couldn't be a double agent, still tied to and loyal to Brushov and his Red Room despite the years she'd worked with SHIELD. Despite being an Avenger and his partner. He _knew_ her, and she wasn't a traitor. She wouldn't have lured him to that warehouse just so Brushov could have his prize fight between Captain America and the Red Guardian. She would _never_ do something like that.

_You sure about that?_

Steve closed his eyes. His back was throbbing mercilessly from staying upright, driving spikes of heated agony straight through his spine and rib cage and into his chest until he could barely breathe. But as awful and crushing as that was, it was nothing compared to the pain squeezing his heart. He'd been such a fool. An infatuated, pathetic _fool_. She was dangerous. He'd known it for months, seen it in the way she walked and talked and teased him. He made himself look past the obvious, look past all her faults. He'd made himself ignore the truth. She was different from him. They all were, all of the agents and assassins and administrators who promised one thing while doing the exact opposite behind his back. SHIELD wasn't trustworthy. They covered themselves in the best intentions, in the guise of doing the right thing at all times and at all costs, but there was always something off, something impure, something disingenuous. Lies, so many _goddamn lies._

And he'd believed them all, even though he'd known they were lies, because he wanted to think the best of her. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to love her.

Who the hell was he kidding? He did love her.

_Damn it._ He drew himself together, gathering the shattered remains of his composure. "Any idea where they went?"

Rumlow wasn't going to answer that without having his own questions answered. "You wanna tell me what the hell happened first?"

Steve grimaced. "It's worse than we feared. They already have a super soldier. They call him Red Guardian. Petrovich was a plant to get SHIELD involved. Brushov orchestrated this whole thing just so he could test the Guardian out on me." Rumlow looked incredulous. Steve had to admit it sounded far-fetched. And he was ashamed for falling for it even though he knew he had no reason to be.

Rumlow was silent for a moment. "Please tell me you hurt him as bad as he hurt you."

Steve sighed, memories from the furious fight assaulting him anew. "I don't know," he admitted. "He was strong and fast and out of his mind with rage. He didn't seem to feel pain, and even if he did, it wasn't enough to slow him down. Brushov made him this way."

"A super soldier or insane?"

"Both." He closed his eyes again. "I had a chance to kill him. Damn it." _I should have killed him._

The other man didn't say anything to that. They were both soldiers so they knew the weight of taking another man's life. Steve had killed many times before in the defense of the innocent, to stop the criminally insane and the villainous and the tyrannical from oppressing or threatening the world. He found no joy in it, and he tried his hardest to keep it as a last resort. No one was beyond redemption, beyond another chance. Beyond compassion. He wouldn't punish a man, murder him, simply because he was a threat. Perhaps that was naïve and silly in this era of insights and advantages made through tactical preemptive strikes. That certainly seemed to be SHIELD's _modus operandi_ of late. But Steve couldn't think like that. Steve used his honor and integrity as a shield to protect himself and the things and people he held dear. Brushov had turned his compassion into a weapon. From the moment he'd walked into that warehouse, he'd been at a disadvantage because he'd been a good man among monsters. Morality was easy to manipulate by the ruthless, and Brushov had expertly controlled him, what Natasha had done notwithstanding. He'd made a mistake when he'd faltered, when he'd cared. He'd tied his own hands.

Maybe SHIELD was right. Stealing this insanity serum, destroying the Red Guardian before he could be unleashed upon the world… Maybe it was better to strike first and win than believe in the benefit of the doubt and lose.

_Natasha loved him,_ Steve thought. It grieved him to accept that, more than he thought it would, but accept it he did. He didn't think he could hurt someone Natasha loved. "We have to get Natasha back." His lips were moving, his voice weak and wavering with the weight of too much emotion. He hadn't thought to say it. Hell, he hadn't even thought to _do_ it. He looked to Rumlow and found the other man doubtful. "Brushov wanted her. He'll hurt her. We have to rescue her."

"They're long gone."

"How long?"

"You've been out for five days." Steve winced at that and he watched to his bruised hands that trembled uselessly in his lap. _Five days._ Five days he'd spent recovering. And five days Brushov had spent moving out of Crimea. Five days Natasha had spent at the sadistic whims of the man who'd tortured and tormented her.

Suddenly he couldn't stand to sit still. He worked the tape from his wrist and pulled the IV free, immediately covering the bleeding hole in his skin with his hand. He tried to swing his legs from the cot. Commands left his brain but didn't seem to quite reach their destination, and his muscles stubbornly refused to cooperate. He worked harder, pushing himself, and with a raspy cry he managed to turn his stiff body and get his feet to the floor. "Whoa. Whoa!" Rumlow shouted, grabbing his shoulder to steady and stop him. "I wasn't kidding. You were mostly dead when we found you. The docs almost couldn't stop the internal bleeding. Cap, your back is _fractured._" Steve grimaced. Hearing the bleak truth making it downright overwhelming. The injuries he'd sustained were substantial. He _knew _it, even if his mind was racing to try and find ways to deny it. Faint sensations ghosted across his thoughts. Hands holding him, digging inside his body, trying to save him. Agony as faces loomed over him, snapping bones back into place. The taste of blood and air that wouldn't come. Pressure on his back. So much excruciating pressure. Even now… things felt out of place, tender and not quite right and not functioning correctly. "They fixed it, and I know you heal fast, but you need to stay down. You need to take it easy and rest. You're in no shape to go anywhere right now. You need another week, maybe two, to get back on your feet. The doctors wanted you airlifted out of here."

Steve gasped, squeezing his knees until his hands shook to get through the pain. "Why didn't you?" he asked in an angry, ragged tone. It was only logical. The mission had gone to hell. Captain America had been seriously wounded. Black Widow was gone. Calling for extraction should have ended this nightmare. And SHIELD should have swooped in from above to take over.

Rumlow's expression hardened. "I guess you don't remember telling me not to," he responded, perhaps a little hurt and affronted. Steve watched the other man, feeling ashamed that he really didn't recall that. He fought to catch his breath, struggling to listen as Rumlow explained. "Fury put you in charge. I figured I'd at least let you tell me your reasons before I decide to disobey you."

"Fury doesn't know?"

"No. No one does outside of the safe house." Rumlow narrowed his eyes. "Your orders."

That left him reeling and uncertain, even more than he had been before. A wisp of memory flashed through his head. Rumlow's face above his, shouting for help. A frantic thought to keep this contained, to keep SHIELD out. He knew why he had wanted that. He didn't trust Fury. Not completely. Not anymore. And Fury obviously didn't trust him to follow orders he found disagreeable, which was why he'd sent Natasha in with her own secret mission in the first place. Steve didn't care what SHIELD wanted with the serum. It needed to be destroyed. It was a tool for evil and evil alone. It couldn't be made into anything else.

_A tool for evil._ The serum. The Red Guardian. Black Widow. Instruments to torture and threaten the innocent. Weapons wielded by the deranged and violent and ambitious. Weapons of the Red Room. Weapons of Russia. Weapons of SHIELD. Where was the line? What needed to be saved versus destroyed? What the hell was right? God, he was so naïve sometimes. He was only beginning to realize that. Who was he to pick and choose which weapons were redeemable, _fixable_, and which weren't? Was there any light in all of these shadows? Was there any truth?

There had to be. And until Steve knew what it was, he didn't want Fury involved. If Natasha was in Brushov's hands… Brushov had wanted her back. He was her handler, her tormentor. She had no capacity to fight him; clearly her terror of him was deep set, born and bred in her youth and fine-tuned into an incredible weapon against her over the course of her life. A collar and chains constructed of fear and violence. She had no choice and no free will. At least, Steve wanted to believe that she had no choice. And he didn't have faith that Fury would believe that as well and make the right call. SHIELD would see her as another enemy beyond aid and order her killed. Another threat that needed to be immediately eliminated. They had before.

There was no benefit of the doubt.

"She's been compromised," Rumlow said. It was like the STRIKE agent could read his thoughts, and he cut through foolish hopes right to the core of the matter. "She was before we left DC. I wasn't kidding with that Motherland comment. This is where she came from, where she belongs."

"No, it's not," Steve refuted. He dug his hands into the cot and pushed and pushed and _pushed_ until he was standing. Sweat bathed his trembling body. He couldn't stifle his groan. The pain was unbearable, nearly bending him in half, and breathing slowly and evenly through his nose was all he could do to stay conscious and strong against the onslaught. His back was locked in a cruel and vicious spasm, muscles contracting and relaxing and twisting in an uncoordinated mess that almost toppled him. Almost. Rumlow was there to get an arm around his waist and steady him. "She's a SHIELD agent. And she's their prisoner. I'm not turning my back on her."

"Poor choice of words, Cap," Rumlow said.

Steve gritted his teeth. "We have a duty to rescue her." How in the world was he going to do that? Just standing was agonizing.

"You think you know her well enough to trust her?" Rumlow let him go and stepped away. It was like he knew everything, saw through the strong face Steve was trying to keep, saw the mistakes he'd made and the lies he'd told himself. "You don't. She gets in your head and gets in your heart and twists you around until you're hers. She takes you and makes you feel like you'd sell the world for her. You and all of the men before you." Hearing that goddamn _hurt_. "That's what she does. Nobody trusts her. She's–"

"An agent of SHIELD," Steve repeated lowly. He'd say it as many times as he needed to. It was true. _It had to be true._ "We're going after her." Suddenly the pain was so sharp and cutting that he couldn't keep its poison inside anymore. "And you don't know a damn thing about what I feel."

Those harsh words echoed for a tense moment. Steve looked at Rumlow. He didn't really know the other man. He was a colleague, a soldier who fought beside him against common enemies, but all the camaraderie he'd shared with the Howling Commandos during the war he didn't have with Rumlow or any of the others of the STRIKE Team. He didn't know if Rumlow had been aware of their true purpose in Crimea. He didn't know if _everyone_ had known of it save him. The thought stirred paranoia within him, and he didn't like it one bit. But Rumlow's face was earnest enough. The sorrowful, sincere look in the other man's eyes was sufficient to temper his anger. "Sorry," Steve murmured, averting his gaze in genuine shame. "That was out of line."

"No, Cap. It's none of my business." Rumlow sighed. "Look, you've been through hell. And whatever went on between you and Romanoff… It's not my place to judge."

Steve brushed his words aside. He stared blankly at the floor for a long moment, trying to catch his wind and get himself above the hurt claiming his body and the grief squeezing his heart. He didn't want to hear anything more because he was afraid of how correct it could be. But he had to concede. "You're right. I don't know her well enough to trust her." Admitting _that_ hurt the most. He wracked his brain, trying so hard to remember what had happened after he'd lost the fight. But it was all just pain and fear. Had she gone with them, or had they dragged her away? Had she sold him to Brushov, or had she been as tricked as he had been? She'd double-crossed him before, used him to get what she'd wanted, so why not then as well?

_No. _He thought he heard Natasha screaming to him. He thought he felt her cool hands on his face. And for a blissful moment he was lost in the fleeting sensations of her lips on his and her hands in his hair and her eyes, open and beautiful and brimming with so much more than pleasure… He shook it away. He wanted to believe, but he couldn't. He couldn't afford to be played for a fool again. "But until we know for sure one way or the other, we have to assume that she's a hostage." And he had to assume if Brushov had Natasha, he was going to draw Black Widow back into his service.

Whether Natasha went willingly or not was the question he couldn't answer.

Rumlow sighed in acquiescence. "If you want us to get her out, fine. I'll get the Tact team ready, and the minute we get their scent, we'll be on it." Rumlow looked at his swaying, shaking form in concern. "But you need to sit this out."

"I can't do that," Steve said. "There's too much at stake." He straightened his posture as much as his damaged spine would allow him. He tried to seem composed and confident and capable. He knew he wasn't.

Rumlow didn't look pleased or at all convinced. "Come on, Cap. You almost died."

"I didn't."

Rumlow shook his head, but he seemed to know a losing battle when he saw one. He sighed. "You're the captain." Steve closed his eyes and winced and tried not to think or read into those uncaring words. "But if you're intent on doing this, there's some stuff you should probably take a look at." He nodded toward the small bathroom in the corner of the room. It was the same one Steve had used to change out of his uniform when they'd arrived in Crimea. It seemed like a lifetime ago. "Suit up. We'll be waiting for you outside."

Rumlow left the room. Steve heard him issuing orders in the safe house beyond, pressing the analysts for information on Brushov's trail. He waited until Rumlow was well out of earshot before releasing a gasping, weeping breath, sagging and squeezing his eyes shut in misery. He knew his own limits better than anyone. They far exceeded a normal person's, far exceeded what most people thought even. Five days was enough time to ward away death. Five days was enough time to begin his convalescence, to set his body on the road to recovery. Wounds that would have killed an ordinary man were healing. Broken bones were mending on their own. Bruises were starting to lose their tenderness. His strength was returning, and his stamina would soon follow. But full recovery from the beating he'd taken… That was going to require more time than five days. And he'd need every ounce of his strength and stamina if he was going to face the Red Guardian again.

He knew his limits and he was seriously, _dangerously_ pushing them. _What the hell are you doing, Rogers? Can't even stand… How the hell are you going to fight?_

He would because he had to.

* * *

Steve Rogers walked into the bathroom, hobbled and battered and defeated.

Captain America walked out, cool and confident and strong.

The STRIKE Team knew better than anyone at SHIELD what Steve was capable of doing. They'd witnessed it firsthand time and time again, watching awestruck as Captain America jumped from planes without parachutes and fought with speed and strength unparalleled and took hits that would knock anyone else down like they were nothing. Still they appeared positively shocked at the transformation as Steve made his way into the safe house's mobile command center.

But there were some things he couldn't hide. He was limping badly. He couldn't stand to remove the splint from his left leg; it was the only thing providing enough support to the damaged bone to keep him walking. And even if he had wanted to remove it, he literally didn't think he _could_. He'd realized right away as he'd dressed in his comfortable, familiar uniform that his range of motion was severely limited. Bending over was damn near impossible. Rotating his torso at his hips was about equally as difficult and unpleasant. He'd stood in the small washroom, staring at his beaten reflection in the mirror with some measure of detachment because the mottled mess of bruises and welts that ran up and down his torso before wrapping around to his back in a cruel blue and purple embrace… Well, it was just easier not to _see_ it. It was easier to ignore how deep and damning his injuries were, injuries that heralded damage that went way beyond what he could just overcome through sheer will. He was so pale underneath the fading marks and cuts on his face, white and drawn and ill. He looked like the walking dead, and he felt even worse.

The Red Guardian had nearly killed him. Everyone in the room knew it, and he knew it, too. There wasn't a part of him that wasn't hurt. He was pretending to be hale and steadfast and invincible, but not even the image of Captain America, with the star blazing on his chest and his shield upon his back, was convincing. But nobody called him on this remarkable show of stupidity and denial he was putting on for them. He couldn't even call himself on it. This was dangerous, both for him and for the men around him. If he faltered in combat, he could get someone killed. He wasn't blind to that. His driving need to see Brushov stopped was stronger than the pain or fear, stronger than reason. This wasn't the first time he'd gone into battle wounded. But it was the first time he'd ever been hurt this badly. Some nagging voice of doubt reminded him that he was in command so it was his responsibility to take himself out of the game if he wasn't capable of fighting. It was also his responsibility to call into SHIELD for reinforcements, to make sure the mission succeeded within the parameters set forth by Fury and the World Security Council. No overt military action. Gather information and wait for authorization for a strike. Those were his orders. He was about to directly violate them. He didn't feel nearly as bad about that as he probably should have. "What's the story?"

Rumlow stood before a long table filled with laptops and computer monitors. His muscular arms were folded across his chest as he looked down on a few SHIELD agents analyzing data that was flying across the screens. "Brushov and his men destroyed most of what was left in the warehouse. We managed to pull a couple of hard drives from the remains of some computers. They're looking through them now."

Beside Rumlow stood Rollins, a hefty guy who was far more brawn than brain. He was a wall of humorless muscle. "Any idea about the number of men they have, sir?" he asked.

Steve shifted his weight to keep the strain off his left leg. "At least fifty that I saw, but probably more."

Rollins shared a glance with Rumlow. "So we'd be outnumbered," he declared. "And probably outgunned."

"It's worse than that," Steve added. The others watched him expectantly. "Brushov's serum… I don't think it makes super soldiers. I think it makes men enraged. Violent." The dogs snapping at the hospital, deranged and ferocious. The Red Guardian, driven by his fury beyond the restraints of pain or endurance. Brushov's soldiers, hitting him and kicking him with wild abandon, their eyes devoid of anything besides hate and a hunger for pain. Not one of them had held back. Not one of them had even hesitated. _Insanity._ "Like there was nothing left of being human. Just madness. Just following orders and killing people."

"That's great," Rumlow uttered disdainfully. Steve glanced at him out the corner of his eye, trying the gauge whether or not Rumlow _knew_ any of the things he'd just told him. But the STRIKE agent's face was stony. "The techs found some files. They're trying to reconstruct more of the data, but this is what they've got so far."

One of the men at the computer brought a picture up on the monitor with a few taps of the keyboard. Steve released a slow breath, straightening as much as possible. Shostakov's face stared back at him. It was an older picture of a nice-looking young man. He had brown eyes, a comely face, and brown hair cropped short. He wore a pilot's flight suit. This guy looked innocent and bright, with a bit of a smile curling his lips and eyes that were soft and friendly. "That's him," Steve said. The features were the same, but the expression was horribly different. The monster he'd fought was a twisted, distorted aberration. "The Red Guardian."

"Alexei Shostakov," Rumlow read from the files appearing on the screen. There were in Russian, but the computer was translating them nearly as fast as it loaded them. They were personnel files from the Russian Air Force. "Born March 19th, 1982 in Moscow. Excelled in his studies, particularly in math and physics. Enrolled in Gagarin Air Force Academy in 2000. Son of Andrei Shostakov, who was apparently some sort of decorated war hero. That ring any bells?"

"Yeah, Romanoff mentioned something about him," Steve said.

Rumlow narrowed his eyes as he read more. "Can you decrypt the rest of these files?" he asked the computer tech.

"It's running the algorithm now," the young man answered, pushing his glasses up his nose as he monitored the task's progress. "Whoever worked on this was using outdated technology. SHIELD cracked these codes decades ago. It took a while to find the decryption key because it was so old."

The computer chirped, and suddenly the screen was flooded with pictures of young men. They were all in their late teens to mid-twenties and obviously recruited from the various branches of the Russian military. Fighter pilots and soldiers and naval officers and submariners. Steve recognized the pictures as those he'd seen back during the briefing at the Triskelion. These were the files that Petrovich had supplied, only now they had the information in them that had been redacted from the versions they'd seen in DC. "Subject convulsed at 1923 hours and suffered massive cardiac arrest. June 6th, 1999. Fatality," the computer tech read. "Subject developed respiratory arrest and became comatose. June 18th, 1999. Fatality. Subject suffered an aortic aneurysm. August 2nd, 2000. Fatality. Stroke, December 1st, 2000." This went on and on. "It's all under something called Project: Red Guardian."

"Jesus," Rumlow breathed. "This is how all these guys died. As damn lab rats."

Steve thought back to those ledgers in the basement of the hospital. All the failed attempts to create a super soldier serum. One of them had obviously worked. But Natasha had said Brushov had sent her to kill Andrei Shostakov and bring Alexei to him… Why else, if not for this? "Something about Shostakov made the serum work on him," Steve surmised. "Romanoff said Brushov was after him specifically."

"She knew him?"

Steve didn't know what to say. He didn't want to betray Natasha's confidence. He wasn't sure how much of what she'd told him was real or true. Not anymore. But even still it didn't feel right to tell anyone else. He decided to keep his answer simple. "Yeah."

Rumlow looked displeased. "You still think she's on our side, Cap?" Steve didn't rise to Rumlow's bait, wondering momentarily why he seemed so intent on discrediting Natasha. Maybe he honestly thought Romanoff was a traitor. Maybe he knew something Steve didn't. Or maybe he was just trying to push Steve's buttons, testing him for weaknesses and trying to rile him. Steve returned his angry gaze to the computer. "Wait," he said to the tech. "Go back."

It was a digital reproduction of a really old file. Steve read it over much faster than the computer translated it. It was a letter internal to the Soviet Union during the height of the Cold War. _"For the betterment of our glorious nation, I suggest we enact Project: Red Guardian. Captain America may be dead, but he proved to the world that super soldiers will bring war to the next stage of its evolution. We should not make the same mistake the Germans did. The United States cannot be allowed to hold the secrets to the super soldier program. It is with the solidarity of our Union in mind that I propose our response to Captain America and all those that may follow him. Our own super soldiers, strong in our convictions and powered by our own might, will carry our flag into a glorious new era of Soviet superiority."_ Brushov had written this to the Soviet government, requesting funds and resources to allow the KGB to pursue his project. Steve looked further among the files and saw Brushov's first and only test subject had been Andrei Shostakov, the best and brightest young officer in the Soviet military at the time.

"It only worked on him," Steve murmured in surprise. The computer was catching up in the translation now, and pages and pages of data, analyses, and notes were appearing on the monitors. There was information from the serum infusion and subsequent strength, endurance, and laboratory tests. Reports and results were appended to the end of the file. The consensus of the scientists, doctors, and Brushov himself was that the serum had been successful. It had been successful on a single subject. "Alexei's father was the first Red Guardian."

"What?" Rumlow asked incredulously. "They had a super soldier back then? Back during the Cold War?" He shook his head and glanced between Rollins and Steve. "That's not possible. SHIELD would've known about it."

"Maybe not if it _only_ worked on him," Steve said. "The project failed. Moscow wanted an army, but all they got was one soldier." That sounded painfully, uncomfortably familiar. Apparently the US and Soviet governments were alike in this one regard: they hadn't thought one man could make much of a difference in a war. Unlike Shostakov, however, Steve had proven them wrong. He continued reading through the files. "And apparently the serum didn't last. It required continual infusions. Infusions that cost a lot of money." There was a lab report detailing something about "inadequate genetic absorption" and "failure to reach self-sustaining production". Brushov's serum succeeded in creating enhanced strength and speed and constitution, but the effects were transient. And a procedure that ended up with _one_ soldier who required an expensive maintenance program was destined for defunding. "They never deployed the Red Guardian, and they shut Brushov down."

"But he never gave up," Rumlow said.

"No. He's been trying to recreate his super soldier program ever since. He kept looking for candidates who could survive his procedure, but no one could. No one except Shostakov's son." Suddenly this whole thing was starting to make sense. The Red Room. The Red Guardian program. Brushov had only one super soldier, the son of the only man on whom his procedure had _ever _worked. There was probably something in Shostakov's genes that allowed him to survive. And this insanity serum… That was perhaps a byproduct of the whole process. Something Brushov had discovered while trying to develop a super soldier serum that wouldn't fail. Something he'd developed for his Red Room. Something he'd happened upon while torturing and murdering all those innocent young men who'd been forced into (or who had unwittingly volunteered for) his program. Like he'd said, this was his life's work, a dream he'd been pursuing for years and years since he'd been a young agent of the KGB. A dream to make soldiers and spies and assassins who were infallible, who didn't feel, who'd didn't love or know compassion, who _never stopped_ no matter how much pain they suffered or how damaged they were. Machines. Weapons.

Victims.

"We have a hit," Perry, another of the STRIKE agents, called from across the room. She stood next to another desk full of computers. Rumlow and Steve walked over to the area, watching as the techs sent pictures to the large displays they had positioned above the table. It was satellite imaging that focused on Volga-Dan canal. "Two ships. Retired battle cruisers. Russian. We've been monitoring all traffic on the Black Sea, and these two left Kerch a day apart from each other. Their manifests are unavailable."

"Armaments?" Rumlow inquired.

Perry shook her head. "I can't get infrared imaging on the ships, and we have no intel. The ships themselves are outdated, but who knows if they've been refitted." The images zoomed in on a map of known vessels trying to pass into Russia. The number of ships was significant as the Volga-Dan canal was a major route from the Sea of Azov and the Black and Caspain Seas to the Russian interior. Cargo ships. Commercial ships. Cruise ships. If Brushov was trying to escape Crimea and take his program back to Russia, it made sense to go this way. He could pass through the canal to reach the Volga River. From there, all of Russia was open to them. And SHIELD would be helpless to stop him. An assault on foreign soil would be a serious matter that required World Security Council approval, and that would not be easy in coming with the instability between NATO and Russia.

Perry looked closer at the screen. "We've been able to track most of these ships through the intelligence network and link them to ports of call and registry except for these five." The screen focused on an array of blinking red dots. They were scattered throughout the waterway, some not yet inside the canal and others maybe a day ahead on the other side. "We're lucky. With the mess in Crimea and Ukraine, things are pretty much in disarray on the canal. There have been significant delays, which means there's a good chance Brushov's boats are still there, either inside or waiting to get through."

This was as good a shot as any. "We have to take him out," Steve declared.

Rumlow shook his head. "That wasn't the mission objective," he reminded. "I can bend the directives for going after Agent Romanoff–"

"This is about more than Romanoff. The Red Guardian has to be stopped. Brushov needs to be stopped."

"Cap–"

Steve wouldn't back down. "We need to sink those ships. That's an order. There's no time to get approval from Fury, or I'd get it. If Brushov makes it deeper inside Russia, he will be out of reach. We'll have no way to track him. And with the mess going on in Ukraine, NATO's hands are tied. SHIELD's hands are tied." He released a slow breath, lifting his chin and standing as tall and firm as he could. "We can't let him get away. Not with Romanoff and not with the serum."

Rumlow glanced to Rollins and then stared at Steve. That comment he'd made earlier about hearing Steve's reasons before disobeying his orders rung in Steve's mind, and for a moment he wondered if the other man would argue or debate or flat-out ignore him. But he didn't. "Damn it," Rumlow muttered after the long, tense moment. He looked away, staring at that mess of ships with the five blinking dots beckoning them. Then he sighed and turned flashing eyes upon Perry and the techs. "I want better intel than this. I don't care what you have to do to get it. Let's get those ships ID'ed."

"Yes, sir," Perry answered.

"Listen up!" Rumlow yelled. The rest of the STRIKE Team came closer, faces stern and eyes hard. "Gear up. Wheels up in fifteen." The agents nodded and dispersed rapidly, reaching for rifles and Kevlar vests and weapons and equipment. Rumlow watched as his team moved with practiced precision, confident and composed as they prepared for an assault. He didn't look as confident or composed as they did. "I hope you're right about this, Rogers," he said quietly. He turned doubtful eyes tinged in just a bit of suspicion toward Steve. "Fury will have our asses if you're not."

"You didn't see what the Red Guardian could do," Steve coolly reminded.

"Yeah, I did," Rumlow countered. "I saw what he did to _you_. And I don't like rushing into something that serious without approval from the higher-ups." Rumlow shook his head. He stepped closer to Steve and lowered his tone. "Just do me a favor. If it comes down to another battle between you and the Red Guardian, make sure you win. I don't want to be taking Captain America home in a body bag."

It took every ounce of Steve's will to not stiffen as Rumlow walked away. He balled his bruised fingers and split knuckles into fists at his sides and gritted his teeth. Anger surged through him, anger and frustration, and with that the pain came back swiftly. But he held himself taut, refusing to succumb even as his back throbbed and his leg nearly buckled and every inch of him screamed that he rest. He wouldn't. He wouldn't let the pain stop him. He wouldn't let his broken bones and battered body stop him. He wouldn't let _anything _stop him. He wouldn't fail. There was more to strength and stamina than rage and insanity. There was courage and determination and valor. Brushov underestimated those things, and there was greater power in them than in anything else. Steve would show him just how wrong he was. He would make damn sure that Brushov never hurt anyone else. He had sworn that he would. And the next time he fought the Red Guardian, he _would_ win.

Natasha had told him to stop making promises he couldn't keep. Well, he kept his promises. And this one he was making to himself.


	9. Chapter 9

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger, __Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, adult situations)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Teensy warning for adult situations on this chapter. Nothing exceeds the rating, but things are little… disturbing. Have a good read!

**RED RAIN**

**9**

The quinjet streaked across the night sky over the Sea the Azov. The night was clear, the moon big and bright and the inky dome overhead dotted with thousands and thousands of twinkling stars. The water was black and tranquil, the waves shining and gleaming like rippling, liquid crystal. It was so dark that it was difficult to see anything. The two pilots of the jet were aided by night vision goggles as they guided the aircraft low over the ocean. Steve grimaced when a bout of turbulence rattled the jet and traded his weight to his right leg to steady himself. "Approaching the canal, Cap," one of the pilots called back. The jet cut through a few wisps off lower-lying clouds, and when it broke through the lights of the Russian coast were ahead, sparkling gold and yellow on a field of black.

Rumlow was standing further back from the cockpit, his rifle slung over his shoulder and his eyes intense as he looked over the maps on the wide, glowing touch screen fastened to the bulkhead before him. "We've ID'ed two more of the ships," he declared as Steve turned to him. "But there's nothing on the other three so far." Steve looked at the map of the harbor and the canal where now only three dots were blinking red. Two were already deep into the canal, having passed through numerous locks into the waterway. One was just outside, waiting in a long line that was dozens of vessels long. The canal was extremely busy with a backlog of traffic due to the unrest in Ukraine clogging the shipping route's limited space. This was not the ideal location to conduct a military assault. Steve prayed they could stop Brushov's ships without threatening innocent lives. The thought of putting people at risk to catch this man made him uneasy, but his choices were running thin. He could only pray Brushov's ships were those that were further in the canal and away from its bustling entrance.

"Keep us low," Rumlow ordered through the communications line to the pilots. "The best we are going to do is a visual. Pray we get one before the Russians notice we're violating their airspace."

Rollins shook his head. "And what's the plan if we find these ships?"

Steve returned his gaze to the wide windshield of the cockpit as the blurry golden lights of the coastline grew sharper and more distinct. "Find Romanoff and get her out. Arrest Brushov."

That sounded overly simplistic, and it was. There was no contingency for what to do if they met resistance. They certainly had the firepower to take on Brushov's soldiers, but they couldn't face much more than that. If the Russian military interceded, an international crisis would be the least of their worries. "We're coming up on the canal," one of the pilots called.

The quinjet dipped down to maybe five hundred feet above the glassy surface of the water. The world was flying past in a streak of black and pale light and gold, and it was difficult to discern the dark hulls of ships from the waves. Steve narrowed his eyes, glancing from the map to the opening of the canal and quickly matching the blinking red dot to the massive outline of a tanker. "No," he said.

"How can you be sure?" Rumlow said.

Steve's sight was much more advanced than a normal man's. In the brief second while the jet flew over the ship, he could see sailors moving about the deck, older men calmly watching from the rails, chatting and smoking and laughing. Young men excited about an adventure. Good-natured ribbing and camaraderie. He could see the captain on the bridge drinking coffee from a chipped cup, bearded and weathered but friendly. These weren't Brushov's men. He supposed the soldiers could have been hidden below, but there was only time enough for a quick determination, so he made it. "That's not them."

Rumlow didn't question further. "Keep going," he said to the pilots. The quinjet zoomed past the first lock, and the lights started to fade away as they entered the Russia. Steve gritted his teeth as the jet rocked again. Pain crawled up his back and he gripped the support bars overhead tighter, fighting to keep himself upright even as his body ached to collapse. He tried to keep his weakness hidden, schooling his face and breathing as slowly and levelly as he could. He needed to concentrate now. He didn't know what sort of nightmare they'd find aboard Brushov's ship. He'd been trying not to imagine, to keep Natasha and her lies out of his head, but she'd sunk herself so deep into his heart that it was impossible. She was part of him now, no matter how uncertain he was about whether or not he meant anything to her. She was in his thoughts and he couldn't get her out because she was too fiery and fierce and passionate. The closer he came to this foolhardy and ill-advised attack, the more he knew that he couldn't let her go. There was too much truth in what she had done, in the pain and fear in her eyes as she'd told about her past, in the way she'd clung to him, open and vulnerable and desperate.

He didn't know if she would be there aboard this ship or what Brushov could have done to her… And the thought of her assaulted or tortured or worse was almost unbearable. _Find Natasha. Get her out._ He had to do this. No matter what she'd done or hadn't done, no matter how she'd hurt him, she didn't deserve to suffer at the hands of her tormentor. He had to get to her, protect her. _Save her._

"Second target," called the pilot, and Steve opened eyes that had slipped shut and kicked himself for his lapse and looked back out the cockpit. The canal was only about sixty miles long and the quinjet would cover it in a matter of minutes. "Ten o'clock."

Steve knew before anyone else that the second unknown ship was not one of Brushov's either. It was a small fishing vessel, rusty and decrepit. The boat was entirely unsuitable to transport anything of the scale Brushov had been moving from that warehouse. Rumlow realized it was wrong before Steve could alert them. "Shit," he muttered. "It's a goddamn fishing boat! Cauthers, what the hell? How did this get on the list?"

The young computer tech looked embarrassed and irate and flustered. Techs didn't normally accompany the STRIKE Team on their missions since they weren't cleared for combat, but these circumstances were exigent and not well planned. They needed an analyst down to the last minute to try and identify these ships. "With all due respect, sir, I'm doing the best I can here. You try hacking the Russian intelligence network! The Russians aren't exactly the most open and outgoing of societies in the world, so information is a little hard to come by."

"If this ship's not one of Brushov's, then at least one of them is through the canal," Rumlow said, staring sternly at Steve. Steve had come to the same conclusion. That would mean one of the ships had escaped. They would have to find some other means to track it down. Worry twisted his insides tighter and tighter. The more difficult and complicated this attack became, the more likely it was that they would need to involve SHIELD.

One thing at a time. Rumlow's glare hardened. "Keep looking," he snapped at the tech. The kid wisely kept his mouth shut and returned to his laptop.

Again Steve looked ahead through the cockpit as the next distant and faint blob of lights grew more distinct. The shadowy lines of the ship hardened into a rusty gray and green hull, sharp and angular. "That's it," he announced. "Guns fore and aft."

"Move it!" Rumlow shouted to the STRIKE Team. They were a dozen in all, which would be bleak odds for most other units, but not for these agents. The team quickly went through collecting their gear, rifles and handguns and grenades. "Get us low enough for a drop." The pilots nodded, bringing the quinjet just fifty feet off the smooth and calm waters of the Don River. Steve grabbed his helmet and slid it over his head before snapping it in place. Then he lifted his shield and slid it on his back with as much poise and control as he could manage. The quinjet suddenly swerved to the left. They grabbed for anything to steady themselves as an anti-aircraft missile shot by them, just barely missing. Rumlow gritted his teeth, balling his fist in Steve's uniform to keep the soldier upright as his battered body nearly toppled him. "Guess that answers the question of whether or not we can sneak up on them."

The pilots banked sharply left again, avoiding another missile screaming toward them. The distinctive whir of the jet's minigun resounded as the copilot thumbed the trigger, the other pilot frantically flipping switches and adjusting the flight controls to kill the main engines and switch to the rotors for close combat. "Coming about!" the pilot shouted, and the quinjet turned abruptly. The sound of rushing air and bullets slamming into metal was loud as the pilot positioned them over the ship deck. The copilot laid down a heavy rain of suppressing fire as Rumlow moved to the rear of the jet and slammed his fist to the controls by door. It came open with a hydraulic hiss, the ramp extending downward. Lights flashed red. The deck was a mere ten feet below them now, the rotors of the jet kicking up wind and water as it hovered. "Go! Go! Go!"

The STRIKE Team deployed, jumping down to the ship with guns held at the ready. Steve swallowed thickly, prayed that he could actually _do_ this, and hopped down as well. The minute his boots hit the metal deck of the ship, agony shot up his left leg, newly healed bone bending and grinding with the pressure. His back flared as well, and he nearly cried out, struggling with every ounce of his will and sheer determination to stay standing and conscious. The STRIKE Team surrounded him, protecting him behind of wall of black-clad soldiers and guns; he wasn't sure if it was purposeful or not, but he was damn glad for it nonetheless. One deep breath and one second later, he found that calm place where he was strong and brave and sure of himself, where the pain couldn't – _wouldn't_ – reach him, and he was running.

The deck was full of enemy soldiers. They manned two gun turrets that had obviously been installed recently, shooting at the quinjet that was still hovering at the fore deck of battle cruiser. The quinjet shot back, and one of the turrets exploded. Steve pulled his shield and ducked behind it as fiery wreckage descended upon him. His back locked into a vicious spasm again, and his arm just wouldn't extend the way he wanted to, so he twisted and turned more before throwing his shield and hitting the soldier behind the other turret. Soldiers were pouring out of the tower at the aft of the ship, guns blazing and eyes wild with violence. Steve's shield was back in his hands, and he slid under a pipe that stretched the width of the deck. He launched his shield again, and it flew into the chest of one thug with enough force to send him spiraling back into his buddies. Steve rose and landed a powerful kick into the midriff of another man, dropping him forcefully, and whirled to deliver a punch at a third.

The STRIKE Team rushed the deck, expertly contending with the wave of men. There were more turrets spitting bullets at the quinjet, but the aircraft was agile, dodging the spray while returning fire. Something closer to the back of the ship exploded. The men operating the turrets were shot dead. Steve sidestepped a thug, driving his boot down on his foot before grabbing him by the vest and tossing him clear off the ship. The soldier screamed before tumbling to the inky waters below.

Another group of soldiers emerged from the front of the ship. Steve brought his shield in front of him to block a barrage of gunfire before rolling to take cover behind some equipment secured on the deck. The clang of bullets slamming into metal was loud and thunderous. Steve waited until the gunfire lulled before propelling himself over the metal canisters. He grabbed the wrist of the closest man and twisted it, snapping bones and throwing him back. Another round of gunfire forced him to kneel behind his shield, his left leg positively refusing to bend the way he needed it to. A bullet clipped his arm because of it, and he grimaced. But Rumlow and Rollins were behind him, unloading their rifles into the slew of soldiers. They all went down, dead or disabled.

Steve stood, unable to keep the wince from his face. "Thanks."

Rumlow brushed it aside. "What are your orders?"

"Get down below and cut the engines. I'll find Romanoff." _If she's here._

Rumlow nodded. "Rollins. Perry. Sircio. Ramirez. With me."

Bullets slammed into the deck at their feet. Steve charged forward, leaving the rest of the team. Ahead there was a cargo area and a helicopter, which a few soldiers were rapidly attempting to prep for take-off. The hold was open, and men were lifting cases from below and placing them in the aircraft. Steve gritted his teeth and sent his shield sailing toward the men loading the chopper, hitting two and dropping them to the deck. Steve leapt over the open hold in a smooth somersault, catching his shield as he landed and making short work of the remaining men surrounding the chopper. Behind him something exploded and he ripped around, finding a significant section of the deck burning near the bow and the STRIKE Team heavily engaged with another company of Brushov's men. The quinjet was firing on the remaining gun turrets, shifting about the smoke billowing into the sky like a bird of prey. Ahead a round of men was approaching, yelling in fury and firing at him haphazardly even as their shots clanged and drove into their own helicopter. Steve took cover behind the black fuselage. Standing as tall as he could while keeping his body behind the safety of the chopper, he glanced up to the bridge. There were men there, garbed in black with rifles held at the ready. He couldn't see if any of them were Brushov or Natasha. Regardless, going toward it across the deck didn't seem to be an option. Steve drew a short breath and jumped down into the hold.

It wasn't much of a drop, and normally it wouldn't have even begun to faze him. But he hit the deck hard and his left knee gave out. Steve ground his teeth together as he staggered, trying his damnedest not to fall even as agony licked up and down his body. And the second he spent trying to gather his composure and get the pain under control proved costly.

He heard the sound of guns being cocked and lifted and aimed. In the dim light of the cargo hold a dozen red targeting lasers were dancing on the silver star over his chest. He tensed in frustration, looking around to find himself surrounded by tall rows of boxes and crates and Brushov's men. And Brushov himself was standing with them. If the Russian general was at all surprised to see the man he'd left behind to die, it wasn't obvious. His face was etched and calm, but his eyes were filled with fury. "You are a difficult man to kill, Captain," he said tersely.

"You don't know the half of it. Where's Natasha?" Steve demanded. Brushov remained calm, uncaring. For someone who loved breeding chaos and insanity like a pyromaniac played with fire, Brushov seemed to have an endless reserve of patience and composure. Steve's frustration and concern got the better of him. _"Where is she?"_

Brushov's thick lips actually twisted into a bit of a smile. Steve's heart nearly stopped in his chest in dread. "So that is why you have come," he said. His eyes twinkled in malicious pleasure. "I can see you are in pain. You shake and your body is bent. My Red Guardian struck you down, and yet here you are, again trying to protect Natalia. Do you care so much for her that you would risk your life to save her?"

"She's my friend," Steve sharply answered. "Now let her go."

"You are a fool," Brushov taunted. "A fool who has blinded himself to the poison that lies in the thorns of a pretty flower. You know the poison is there, yet you touch that flower all the same."

Steve stiffened. "Where is she?"

_"Natalia, idi syuda."_ The shadows behind him shifted and parted as a figure moved among them. She emerged from the blackness. She slid forward, walking with swaying hips and long legs. She glided, every step languid and graceful and purposeful. Her eyes were teeming with rage. There was no sign of Natasha in them. They were devoid of light, of compassion, of recognition. There was nothing of _her_. Like the Red Guardian, there was only a hunger for pain. For power and death.

Steve felt something inside him throb in merciless fear. He shook his head numbly. He had worried that she would be turned to Brushov's side, that he'd dig his claws into her heart and force her back into his service. But he hadn't expected this. He'd been a fool not to, but he hadn't. It was more than obvious what had happened.

Brushov had given her the serum.

Natasha was gone, burned away by the hellish fires of insanity, and only Black Widow remained.

"Nat," he whispered in horror. He could hardly hear over the thunder of his pounding heart, over the ringing in his ears. "Natasha!" She said nothing. Her eyes never left his, filled with anticipation. With hunger. Steve could hardly contain his own rage. He turned his glare to Brushov. "You son of a bitch!"

"You should have accepted defeat," Brushov reprimanded emotionlessly. "And you should have known better than to try and take her from me. It's futile." Steve bristled, fuming and fighting to stay in control. Brushov smiled again in satisfaction. "But I suppose you can serve another purpose. A proof of her loyalty." He turned to Natasha, his large hand sweeping up the black leather of her combat suit, caressing possessively before settling on her shoulder. He leaned close to her ear, intimately, and softly ordered, "Kill him and come home."

Natasha made no move and said nothing to acknowledge that she'd heard or understood. But her lips turned in the smallest hint of a smile. Brushov shouted to his men, and they quickly left the hold, disappearing into the shadows. Above them on the deck the battle raged, and the STRIKE Team was shouting in his ear, but the world had closed in on Steve and Natasha and the few feet between them and the darkness swirling around them. She stared at him, her stature loose, her hands limply at her sides. Everything about her was twisted. Any hint of friendship, of affection, was gone from her gaze. She was eyeing him like a predator did her prey. She was eyeing him like he was her mark, her target. Her mission. Her victim.

Steve stepped back. "Natasha," he said softly, trying to keep his voice level despite the turmoil twisting his gut and pounding in his heart. Maybe his calm could become hers. Maybe his strength would become hers. "Come on. Snap out of it." She didn't blink, didn't respond, glaring at him with those hard eyes and that sick little smile. Steve tried not to be daunted. He had to get through to her. He had to reach her through the effects of the serum, through whatever hell she was experiencing in her head. He had to get her back. "It's Steve, Natasha. You know me."

In one smooth, quick motion, she pulled her handgun from the holster on her hip. She pointed it at him without hesitation. "I know you," she agreed. Her voice would be a low, seductive purr if not for the hatred glimmering in her eyes. "You're mine."

_Oh, no…_ "Natasha, please don't do this," he begged. "Please don't fight me. I know you're stronger than him. You're stronger than this. He doesn't own you." She didn't move, didn't falter, staring at him. The gun was unwavering in her hand. "You _know_ me," Steve insisted. "You know I wouldn't hurt you. You know I would _never_ lie to you. I'm your friend, your partner, your…" His voice failed him, but he gathered up his strength. "I promised to help you stop him, remember?" He held open a hand to her, his fingers extended in a show of trust. "Please put the gun down. You don't have to do this. Whatever he's done to you, we can fix it. I swear to you that we can fix it. Come with me. SHIELD will protect you. I'll protect you."

She snarled at that, her expression shattering from its placid state into an enraged glower as she yanked on the trigger. Steve pulled his shield up rapidly, and the bullets slammed uselessly into the vibranium. Still the impacts slowed him, and when he looked again, she was gone. _Damn it._ "Natasha!" He whirled, falling into a defensive stance, his eyes frantically scanning the shadows surrounding him. Tall columns of cases and crates that were swathed in blackness enclosed him like a barricade. The ship rocked beneath his feet as something exploded on the deck above them, and the lights went out. Emergency lights flickered, dousing the hold in ruby red that barely combatted the utter pitch. Steve couldn't quite believe it had come to this, his addled mind racing in panic to try to come up with some way to avoid fighting Natasha. He was much stronger than her, and he could endure much more, but she was a master assassin slipping among the shadows around him, working efficiently and ruthlessly in an environment that suited the way she fought and the way she killed. He was injured and they both knew it. He couldn't hurt her and they both knew it.

She had every advantage.

Steve gripped his shield tighter, breathing slowly and forcing himself to stay calm. He stepped on light feet as he silently moved in the darkness. He gritted his teeth, scanning the heavy shadows that blanketed everything. The red lights flashing created ghosts and phantoms that skulked through the hold. More than once he thought he saw her, but he was too slow to be certain. He turned and looked about him, at the stacks of crates that loomed over him like giants. He felt the air shift behind him. He spun, ducking and avoiding the swipe of a knife. The blade glinted wickedly in the flashing light, slashing toward his neck. Steve blocked the blow, batting aside the hand that held the knife with his shield and grabbing for her, but she was already too far away. They moved in a rapid and deadly dance, kicks deflected and punches side-stepped and the knife swinging in a silver arc between them. Steve stayed defensive, struggling to keep up with Natasha's quick strikes while searching for a way to disarm her. She wasn't pulling her punches. She was wielding that knife at him with the intent to kill him, and one slip could mean his death.

Eventually he moved faster and snatched her wrist, squeezing hard enough to pain her. It hardly slowed her and she didn't drop the knife, but her eyes exploded in rage. She twisted into him, landing her elbow in his midriff and knocking the air from his chest. She hit a particularly sore spot, and he saw stars for a moment. He managed to keep his grip, trapping her against him and sacrificing his shield to wrap his arm around her. Agile fingers twirled the knife, and the blade dug into his shoulder.

Steve grunted, crushing her fingers in his hand. She tried to pull away, but he didn't let her. "Don't do this," he hissed in her ear. "Snap out of it!"

She screamed in frustration, trying with all her might to wriggle free of his iron grip. She bared her teeth, red hair flying in his face, fighting and clawing and kicking with wild abandon. It was completely purposeful that she slammed her boot into his left leg. Steve cried out, agony flaring up and down the suddenly useless limb. She yanked the knife out of his shoulder and pivoted, spinning it expertly and stabbing at him again. He deflected the blow and punched her, trying to restrain his strength so as not to hurt her but his own control was wearing away. "Stop it!" he ordered harshly. "Natasha, listen to me! Stop!"

She didn't stop. She came at him again and again, merciless and deadly accurate. She charged him, driving him back until he was cornered against one of the towers of crates. Steve winced, whirling and delivering a return of his own, but she was too fast and his fist slammed into the crate instead. The metal and plastic crumpled under the blow, and vials of red liquid fell out and smashed to the floor. She used his momentum against him, pinning him to the wall of cargo and trying to drive the knife up into his belly. He got both of his hands around hers, pushing back, but he was weakening. Her knee wedged up between his legs, and he howled, squirming in pain but refusing to let go. She'd gut him if he did. The knife shook as she dragged it up higher along his abdomen. Steve swallowed against the blackness encroaching on his vision, his left leg buckling and his back tightening so ferociously he could hardly make himself breathe. Even though he was good six inches taller than her, she bore down on him, violent and vicious. And even though he was so much stronger than her, the pain from his injuries was ripping the power away from his muscles. His arms shook and slowly gave up ground. As he crumpled beneath her, she leaned toward him and kissed him hard.

This was nothing like before, like the night they'd made love. This was violent and dominating, cruel and lustful, fueled by rage and madness rather than passion. There was no respect, no love. A mockery of who she was and what they'd shared and how much he cared for her. He groaned into her hungry lips, feeling her tongue dive into his mouth and the knife bite into his stomach. She roughly bit his lip as he tried to pull away and didn't allow his escape, hotly claiming his mouth again. He forced himself to remember that _this wasn't her_, that she wasn't this demon. That everything inside her was scorched and tortured and confused, emotions and memories and nightmares melting together. It was hard to still his disgust and fear, and it was even harder to stay calm. "Stop," he said against her. "This isn't you. This isn't you! _Stop!_"

She said nothing. This was _nothing_ to her. Natasha was gone, strangled and suffocated by the seductress and the murderer. She dragged her lips and teeth down the side of his face and throat, and her knee pushed harder against him and that knife sliced deeper. He wasn't going to let her do this to him. He was _stronger_ than her. He would stop her. "Get the hell off of me," he coldly demanded. _"Get off!"_

In a blink Natasha's eyes filled with tears, and he saw _her._ He didn't waste a moment in surprise. He was finally able to force his muscles to goddamn _work_ and pushed her back. She skittered away, reeling now, and he came after her, landing a kick to her side that sent her sprawling across the hold. Steve wiped the blood from his lip and stood to his full height. His chest was heaving. "Look at me," he ordered. She didn't, quivering and fighting for air and sobbing on the floor. Everything inside him throbbed in anguish to see her reduced to this. His fingers fumbled for the clasp of his helmet and he took it off and tossed it aside. He forced his voice to soften and his panic to dissipate. "Nat, please. Look at me."

She did. The war in her eyes was brutal. Shame. Guilt. Fear. Fury and desire. So much confusion. Steve's eyes stung. His voice was rough with emotion. "Think. You know me. You know me, Natasha." His heart was pounding and he couldn't quite catch his breath, but the words were out of his mouth before he even realized it. "And you know I love you."

He hadn't meant to say that, but once he did, he knew it was true. And he prayed she would know that as well. That hearing how much he cared about her would empower her, that it could reach her under the serum and under all of the damage. "I love you, Nat. And I'm with you no matter what. Please come back to me. _Please._"

He thought for a foolish moment that she might. That he'd gotten through to her, rescued her from the hellish prison inside her. But the insanity was too strong, sweeping up and consuming her again. The rage came back in an instant, her pain fueling it, and she was on her feet with a ragged cry. Her teary eyes were wild as she slashed and stabbed and kicked at him until he was struggling to keep up. She threw all of her talent and training at him, and the fight resumed, brutal and lightning-fast. Steve scrambled to defend himself. Quickly his counters became sluggish and his steps were heavy and sloppy. He was already so injured that it didn't take much more for her to wear him down. And she was an expert at using his strength against him. He rolled away, barely able to twist given the stiff and miserable state of his back, and grabbed his shield. She'd drawn the gun again. The _blam blam blam_ of the weapon firing echoed in the hold, louder than his pounding heart and the battle on the deck above him, and the bullets drove into his shield and knocked him back. Her roundhouse kick slammed into him next, forcing him to retreat even further. And when she swept his legs out from under him, he tumbled down and landed heavily on his back.

Steve howled in complete misery, the rough impact jostling newly healing bones and battered and strained muscles. He choked on his breath, unable to make his lungs function for an endless eternity of suffering. Instinctively he rolled as best he could to his side, vainly trying to protect himself, but his body refused to cooperate. The pain effectively restrained him for her, and she looked down, uncaring and cold, as he squirmed and battled to make himself move. He gasped, shaking, tears filling his eyes. Helplessly he looked up at her. She loomed over him, pointing the gun at his quivering body, those furious eyes boring into his. She kicked his shield from his arm and drove her boot and her weight onto his throat. Steve grimaced, blood slipping down his chin from his lip, getting his right hand under her heel and pushing up but it didn't matter much. His left hand she crushed under her other foot. And the gun came down, pointing at his forehead.

The instinct to keep struggling was almost overwhelming. But he couldn't. He couldn't win this fight like this. He couldn't seriously hurt her or kill her. He didn't have it in himself. He couldn't. "You won't!" he gasped. She retaliated in cruelty, stepping harder across his throat. "Natasha…" His voice was a strangled whimper. "I know you won't shoot me. _I know you._"

That angered her, and she screamed in frustration. A second later she was straddling him, holding him completely at her mercy, putting all her weight across his chest and thus his damaged back. She kept the gun under his chin, her finger poised on the trigger. Her other held his left wrist above his head. Steve fought to stay limp. This was his only chance to save them both. "You won't hurt me. You can't." He saw the insanity waver in its grip upon her, her eyes slightly softening and filling again with tears. Hope soared within him, and he took a chance at raising his free hand and pressing it tenderly to her bruised face. He swept his thumb over her cheek. He held her gaze, firm and powerful and true. "I trust you."

She let out a strangled sob, her face contorting in a grimace of grief and anger and frustration. The gun shifted from his neck as she let go of his hand and grabbed both sides of his face and kissed him again, frantic and fearful. The madness was pouring from her in desperate, wild waves. He could feel the hot barrel of the gun digging into his cheek. She sobbed into his mouth, trembling so much that she shook them both, and her free hand carded through his hair and then pulled tight. She pushed his head into the muzzle of the gun and wept. _And hesitated._

He balled his free hand into a fist and rammed it into her temple as fast and hard as he could.

Natasha yelped, thrown off of him by the force of the unexpected blow. The gun went off, the bullet blowing into one of the crates behind them and covering them both in shards of plastic and glass and the serum. Steve summoned the last bit of his strength and rolled, taking her with him and pinning her to the floor. She bucked wildly, screaming hysterically, but he had the upper hand now and he was too large and strong for her to escape. He slammed her hand down until the gun was loosed from it, and then he winced. "Sorry," he whispered. The next blow to her head knocked her out cold.

Steve fought to catch his breath. He leaned back from Natasha's unconscious form, pressing his fingers to the pulse point under her jaw. Her heartbeat was fast and uneven. He watched her worriedly for a second, struggling to gather his wits and honestly a tad fearful she was going to abruptly awaken and launch herself at him again. But she didn't. He struggled to get to his feet.

Suddenly the ship lurched beneath him, reminding him of where he was and what was going on, and everything that had disappeared in the frenzy of their fight returned with a vengeance. The STRIKE Team's hurried conversation blared in his ear. He held his right glove to his face. "Rumlow," he gasped. "Rumlow! What's your status?"

"Ship's dead in the water," came a harried answer. "Everything is secure, and the team is clear."

"Brushov's gone," Steve returned, limping over to his discarded shield. He grabbed it and slid it onto his back. The deck beneath him rattled and rumbled. He didn't like the sound of it. "We need to stop that chopper. Copy?" Rumlow's response came back, but it was garbled. Steve winced, hurrying back to Natasha. "I have Romanoff, but we are not clear. Do you copy?" Nothing. "Rumlow!"

Suddenly something in the hold exploded – _oh God, that's not good_ – and water slammed into him. Steve cried out, swept off his feet like a ragdoll and thrown into the crates. For a seeming eternity he was trapped against them by the onslaught of the wave, the pain excruciating and robbing him of any capacity to move. But he rose above it, yelling in frustration as he peeled his unwilling body away. He saw Natasha, the water covering her completely, and fell to his knees beside her and scooped her limp body into his arms. His muscles vigorously protested any further movement, and when he tried to push himself to his feet his back utterly refused and he could only lean up about halfway. He gave a determined howl, jabbing his teeth into his lower lip until the warm tang of blood filled his mouth and he made himself stand.

Water was rapidly spilling into the hold from somewhere; in the darkness, it was impossible to tell where the damage was. Steve tucked Natasha to his chest tightly and ran. The floor was quickly flooded, the water climbing to his knees and then to his thighs. He couldn't go back up, not with Natasha helpless and unconscious in his arms. He didn't think he could possibly climb anyway with his back the way it was. But he had to find a way. He had to get out. He had to get them out _now_.

"Rumlow!" he cried. Another explosion boomed over the hold, and the rush of water nearly swept him from his feet. He choked on a mouthful as he tripped, fighting to keep Natasha out of the rising water. "Anybody copy? We need help down here!" There was no answer. Steve cursed, forcing his legs to push, to run, to move as fast as he could. The hold was thankfully not very big, and he found his way through the blackness to the wall on one side. He shifted Natasha to one arm, fumbling along the wall, squinting and trying to stay calm as he searched for a door. Panic turned his insides into a tight, painful coil, so tight in fact that he could barely breathe or think as he searched frantically. "Come on," he gasped. "Come on!"

Finally his fingers brushed against the handle of a door. He grabbed it and hauled himself closer, even as the flood rose to his waist and pulled him away. It was locked. "Damn it," he hissed. He didn't think he could kick it, not with Natasha in his arms and his back so messed up. So he ripped the handle right off the door and with a cry shouldered it open.

The hallway beyond was dimly lit and washed in red. Steve staggered through, banging his hurt shin against the lip of the doorway and gasping in misery. He didn't let that slow him, getting a better grip on Natasha's slight form as he charged onward. The water chased him, flooding behind his feet. The ship screamed, an awful whine of twisting and bending metal, and everything listed sharply to the right. Steve didn't let that slow him, thundering down the narrow corridor. He passed other doors, not pausing to check them. The floor tipped more, slanting at nearly a forty-five degree angle, and it was becoming impossible to run. Still he did, dragging his body through the water to the opposite end of the corridor. The Russian words in white text alongside the heavy door at the end thankfully proclaimed what lay beyond to be a stairwell, and he grabbed the handle of the hatch and shoved it open and barreled inside.

His momentum carried him too far, and his hip smashed painfully into the railing of the stairs. He held tighter to Natasha, jolting with the impact, before twisting and struggling up the stairs. The walls shuddered. Steve kept one hand on the railing, pulling himself up the tilted steps. The ship was obviously listing to the right, the stairs tipping and tilting beneath his boots, and he could barely keep his balance. Water was rushing up from below. "Oh, hell," he moaned. When his foot came down again, it was on the banisters of the railing. He didn't know if they would hold his weight as they creaked and whimpered under the strain. It was just a few more steps to the door on the next level up, and he took them in gigantic strides, summoning strength and courage and alacrity. The railing caved in, and he staggered but didn't fall.

Steve pushed shoulder first through the door, and it burst open. He paused and stupidly looked down. The water gurgled and bubbled and consumed everything behind him. Then he ran into another corridor. He found himself standing on the goddamn bulkhead because the ship was completely on its side, but he wasted not a moment digesting that horrifying fact before sprinting as fast as he could. The water rose up through the wall under his feet, and he splashed loudly as it climbed higher and higher. He jumped over the doorways, not trusting them to stay secure under him. He chanced looking down at Natasha to find her unconscious still, her head tucked to his shoulder. Even as his lungs burned and his muscles ached and his back protested _every_ movement, he knew he couldn't stop. They would both drown if he did.

He reached the end of this corridor and found another stairway. How the hell could he get out of here? The ship groaned around him and continued turning, continued listing. Capsizing. Steve drew a deep breath and shook his head helplessly, terror twisting his heart. He couldn't go back down. And there was no way up with the stairs nearly inverted.

The water exploded on him. The pressure against his back numbed his limbs instantly, and he nearly let go of Natasha as the river swirled inside the metal cage the ship had become and overran them. He held Natasha tightly to him, tipping back her head and closing her nose. He sucked in a huge breath, as deep as he could manage, and exhaled into her mouth, praying it would be enough to last her. Then he drew another breath for himself that was mostly a mouthful of water. The lights faded and winked as the blackness took him, and he kicked subconsciously, diving down along the wall toward what had once been up. The waters quickly rose, and he was able to swim underwater to the top of the stairwell. He thanked his lucky stars the door was already open. His head nearly slammed into the platform that had been at the top of the stairs, but he wrenched his arm down and stopped the collision and moved around it. He pushed himself and Natasha through the doorway.

He kicked up and reached the surface.

It was the bridge.

The bridge that was flipped upside down.

And the bridge that was almost entirely under water.

Steve's eyes widened as frantically looked around. The blackness of the river surrounded the huge windows, held back by flimsy glass and some twist of good fortune. Water poured in behind him and leaked through bolts in a spray. The controls hissed and spat and sparked as the electrical systems failed. The few feet of air left in the room were rapidly disappearing. Steve pulled Natasha against him and fearfully wondered what the hell he was supposed to do now. Just as he was about to panic (panic more at any rate), the ship contorted again, an explosion from _somewhere_ battering it, and suddenly everything was rising. The water drained from the room as fast as it had flooded it, and he found his feet on the ceiling. He stumbled as everything tilted beneath him, losing his footing and sliding roughly to the front of the bridge. He rolled as much as he could to protect Natasha, screaming as gravity shifted and his brutalized body crashed into the wheel and navigational equipment before landing against the ceiling that was now the floor and the windows that were barely still intact. Water rushed down, splashing into his mouth and nose and eyes, and the glass under him cracked. He gathered Natasha in his arms, unsure if she was breathing or even alive, as he lay terrified and still.

But then it stopped.

Steve was staring at the back of the bridge, droplets cascading languidly down on him, sodden papers and books and equipment falling from the shelves on the other side of the room. Dizzy and disoriented, he didn't make sense of what was happening for what felt like an eternity. Then everything moved as though pulled from the bow of the vessel. He rolled gingerly, looking blearily down through the slowly breaking windows. The river was below them. The stern of the ship was out of the river, bobbing upside down as the front flooded and started to sink.

_The ship was sinking._

He was on his feet somehow, lifting Natasha into his shaking arms again and running. The glass cracked more and broke beneath him. He didn't dare stop; if they fell from here, they would be trapped under the ship. He had to get to the side. He had to get away. He tripped and scrambled, fighting for every inch, until he reached the left window. One punch shattered it.

Outside the river below was a swirling mess of debris and blackness. It was nearly fifty feet down. But there was no time to fear or hesitate. He took a deep breath and jumped.

They seemed to fall forever. A second or two later he struck the river, and pain grabbed him in its greedy, cruel hands and dragged him down and down and _down_ into the black abyss. His chest constricted, his lungs seizing and failing, his heart stopping in its frantic pulse. He was so tired. Everything was falling away, noise and light and thought and life, and he almost let it go. _Almost._

Some part of him didn't give up, _never_ gave up. He kicked and kicked until he broke the surface. He gasped, drawing a precious, glorious breath into his body. Agony rushed over him, stealing his strength, but he wouldn't succumb. Not after all this. Not now.

The weight in his arms was reminding him to keep fighting.

Steve swam. It wasn't very easy, trying to keep Natasha's face above the water, trying to force muscles that were damn well _spent_ to keep going. His movements were choppy and weak and uncoordinated, but it was the best he could manage. The water was warm, but he felt cold like there was ice in his abused body again, weighing him down, taking him _back_. All he knew was he needed to put some distance between them and the ship sinking behind them.

He didn't think he could. At least not fast enough.

The ship rocked as something inside it detonated. Heat and light washed over him as the force of the explosion blasted them, and a large, powerful wave nearly pushed him back under again. Steve choked in surprise, treading as best he could, hooking a hand under Natasha's chin and lifting her pale face out of the river even as water filled his mouth and lungs. He couldn't keep going. The pain finally paralyzed him.

He nearly died from relief when the communications link crackled in his ear. "Cap! Cap, can you hear me?"

"I see them!"

"Swing us low!"

A huge, black shadow slid over him with the roar of rotors. The quinjet was there, hovering just in front of them, the rear doors opened and the platform extended. The pilots brought the aircraft right down the surface of the river. At the very edge of the platform Rumlow and Rollins were there, flanked and steadied by the others of the STRIKE Team. "Cap!" Rumlow yelled. Bronzed and bloodied fingers reached toward him. "Give me your hand!"

Steve summoned the last vestiges of his strength and pushed himself out of the water and grabbed Rumlow's hand. The other man secured his grip around Steve's wrist and pulled. Rollins hooked his arms under Steve's, groaning in effort. Both Steve and Natasha were hauled from the river and onto the hard, secure, wonderfully _firm_ floor of the jet. "Go!" Rumlow roared hoarsely, grabbing Steve and yanking him into his embrace and further inside to safety. "Get us the hell out of here!"

The quinjet streaked into the night. The river swallowed the ship, dragging it down into its deep, black embraces, and when it was over, everything was calm and beautiful and quiet again under the peaceful moon and stars. It was almost like nothing had ever happened at all.

* * *

_Natalia, idi syuda. – _Natalia, come here.


	10. Chapter 10

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger, __Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, adult situations)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Thank you for all your kind words and support! It's really been amazing. Well, here we go…

**RED RAIN**

**10**

Steve coughed up a lungful of water before collapsing to the floor of the jet. Rumlow's steady hand was on his back. "You alright?"

Steve choked, spitting and heaving for breath. Each motion of the strained muscles of his chest was agonizing, and the urge to rest, to succumb to the blackness pushing him down and give up, was nearly overwhelming. But he shrugged off Rumlow's arms, pushing himself up to his knees and then to his feet. Everything was spinning and his head was pounding and his back throbbed so viciously he almost couldn't stand it. "What the hell?" he demanded, turning flashing eyes upon the STRIKE commander. "What was that? I told you we weren't clear!"

Rumlow's face hardened but not with guilt or an apology. "I couldn't get a good read on what you said. There was too much interference. We had the shot so we took it. You're the one who told us to sink her."

Steve could hardly contain his anger. Everything from the last few days was rubbing him raw, yanking and pulling and gnawing at his restraint, and he felt incredibly worn thin. He staggered, letting his fury overrule his pain, and grabbed Rumlow by his combat vest. "You almost got us killed!"

Rumlow glared and clenched his jaw and pushed Steve back. Steve was too hurt and too fatigued to keep his feet steady beneath him, so he nearly fell, coughing again and dripping water everywhere. He managed to straighten his form and loom threateningly over the smaller man. Water ran into his eyes as he stood his ground. "Easy! Rogers! Rumlow!" Ramirez was there, trying to get between the two of them.

Some part of Steve knew this was childish and ridiculous; he'd seen egos get men into trouble more times than he cared to count during the war, and they had no time for this nonsense. He was too hurt, though, too riled and upset to maintain his normal composure. He was so angry. He was tired of lies, tired of betrayal. So goddamn tired. He stepped once more into Rumlow's personal space. He was taller and stronger, even as sopping wet and pained as he was, and everyone aboard the quinjet knew it. "Never again," he coldly commanded. "You wait for my orders."

"Just like you're waiting for Fury's?" Rumlow retorted. Steve wasn't so conceited or sure of himself not to feel shame at that, not to realize his own hypocrisy. Even if he knew his reasoning was sound, even if he _knew_ he couldn't trust Fury when the Director wanted to get his hands on that serum, he was still acutely aware that this wasn't how soldiers were supposed to act. This wasn't the army, though. This was SHIELD. And he wasn't a soldier. He was a SHIELD agent. Nothing was black and white. Nothing was simple. He needed to remember that.

Rumlow looked a bit apologetic. "Come on, Cap. This mission has been FUBARed from the minute we left DC. We need to call it in. Now."

Steve felt cold, trapped, and if it wasn't for the hoarse cough resounding from his left, Rumlow might have noticed his uncertainty. But Natasha regaining consciousness pulled him to her. He stumbled to where she was lying in a sopping mess on the floor. Perry and a few other agents surrounded her as she squirmed and fought for breath. Steve shouldered his way through them and dropped to a crouch beside her. "Natasha?" he asked, reaching a hand toward her. She had her head on her arms, the dark red of her wet hair tangled and glistening and plastered to pale skin. He couldn't see her eyes. "Natasha?"

She batted his hand away and sprang lithely to her feet. A breath later she attacked Perry, landing two quick punches in succession and then dropping her with a kick to the chest. The STRIKE agent fell back against the bulkhead of the jet with a cry, her rifle clattering to the floor. Natasha immediately grabbed it. She rolled between two of the agents and whirled, bringing the rifle to bear and shooting at them. The clang of bullets against the metal fuselage around them was loud and echoing.

"Jesus! Shit!" yelled one of the pilots as a wayward shot ricocheted into the cockpit. The quinjet lurched sharply to the right, nearly tipping on its side before righting itself. The STRIKE agents floundered, diving for cover. Alarms wailed. One of the agents went down, a bullet in his shoulder. Another bounced in the narrow confines and hit Rumlow. Steve yanked the STRIKE commander safely to the floor before reaching a hand towards Natasha and snatching the gun from her. Rollins tackled her, roughly shoving her back into the opposite bulkhead and holding her there.

Hearts raced. Breaths wouldn't come. The echo of the gunfire lasted far too long. "Everybody alright?" Steve yelled. A chorus of grunts and gasps of relief and affirmations responded. Natasha's pained cry drew Steve's attention from the reeling agents, and he found Rollins violently muscling her down to the flight deck. "Hey! Easy!" Steve scrambled to his feet, rushing to pull the bigger man off of Natasha's bucking form. She struggled wildly, frantically, like a cornered animal desperate to free herself. Steve caught her eyes and found only that vicious haze of insanity. Any hope that he'd had that she'd come out from under the influence of the serum was quickly dashed.

"On your knees!" Rumlow ordered, but even with a half a dozen guns aimed at her, Natasha refused to submit, kicking back and ramming Rollins into the wall behind them. She screamed hoarsely as Rollins wrapped his beefy arm around her throat. She sunk her teeth into his flesh. He winced but didn't let go, squeezing tighter and not caring one bit if he choked her.

"Easy!" Steve yelled again, pushing his way closer and planting himself between the rifles and Natasha's squirming body. "Did you hear me? I said easy, Rollins! Rollins!"

"She's out of her mind!" Perry said in disgust. She righted herself, one of the other agents helping her, and wiped the blood from a split lip. The man who'd been shot was propped to the bulkhead of the jet, two others stabilizing him. The wound didn't look serious. It was luck, pure and simple, and it could have just as easily gone the other way. Natasha could have shot the pilots or killed one or more of the STRIKE Team when she'd lashed out. Perry drew her handgun from her hip holster and pointed it at Natasha. "What the hell happened to her? Why is she acting like this?"

"Brushov injected her with the serum," Steve quickly supplied. He winced as the muscles of Rollins' arm flexed and squeezed and strangled. Natasha was gasping for air now, clawing at the arm around her neck, her eyes wide and her face white. The bruise on her temple from where Steve had struck her earlier was bright red and hideous against the pallor of her skin. "She doesn't know what she's doing. Let her go. Let her go!"

"So she can kill us?" Rollins countered in exasperation and alarm. "You crazy, Cap? I don't think so. Obviously she's one of them. She went back to her own."

"She's one of us! Brushov injected her!" Steve said again in frustration. "This is the serum, not her! It's not her fault! You're choking her!" He grabbed Rollins' arm and curled his hand around it in warning. Natasha's eyes were rolling back into her head, and her breath was hardly coming, a wrangled, wheezing gasp through a constricted and crushed airway. Steve gritted his teeth, panicked, prepared to fight them all if he needed to but desperately hoping it wouldn't come to that. In these close quarters with guns raised and poised to fire all around them, it would only mean Natasha's death and his own, too. He didn't know if it was a miscommunication or a mistake that had led to Rumlow shooting the ship while he and Natasha had still been aboard, but paranoia and horror was making it increasingly difficult to manage trust and patience. "Let her go, Rollins, or I'll make you."

With that soft threat, everything was still. The STRIKE agents were unfaltering, unmoving, even as the tension escalated. Rumlow was gasping and panting beside Steve, one hand pressed to his side where dark red seeped between his fingers. Sweat covered his unshaven face. He grimaced but nodded to his agents. Rollins looked like it physically pained him to follow the order, but he did, his arm loosening from around Natasha's throat. Natasha immediately fell to the floor, coughing deeply, struggling to get air into her body. Rollins grabbed her arms and pulled them behind her back while she was dazed. "Tie her up," Rumlow ordered. Then he staggered to the front of the jet.

Steve followed, angry and terrified for her, watching for a second as the STRIKE agents swarmed her with one zip tie for her hands and another for her ankles. He wanted to argue, but he wasn't sure about what. As much as it pained him to see them treat Natasha this way, he wasn't sure it was wrong. As long as that serum was coursing through her veins, she was a deadly and dangerous threat. He'd barely escaped their fight with his life, and he knew it, made himself accept that, even if he didn't want to. Rumlow was leaning across an equipment locker, gasping and grimacing, his brow creased in pain. Steve saw him pull his hand from his side and examine the wound. He considered asking him if he was okay, but Rumlow wasn't the type to tolerate other people's concern. And this wasn't the time. So instead he focused. There was still a mission to complete. "We need to go after Brushov."

Rumlow looked at him like he was crazy. "He's gone. He got away."

Steve clenched his hand into a fist in frustration. He wasn't sure how that had happened (had _anybody_ followed orders?), and there wasn't time to figure it out now. "We can't track the chopper?"

"Cap, it's over," Rumlow said. "It's time to haul it in."

Steve jutted a hand to the side of the craft. "He's still out there! The Red Guardian is _still out there_. That ship was loaded with the serum. If the other one is as well, he's got enough poison to turn tens of thousands of people crazy." Rumlow's eyes flicked to Natasha, who was shrieking and kicking and fighting his team as they tried to restrain her. "We have to find that second ship and destroy it before he spreads the serum all over the world. Once it's out, we can't get it back. Once it's out, it's too late." Steve drew a deep breath, struggling to calm his pounding heart and think past his throbbing head. "We have to stop this _now_ or a lot of innocent people will die."

Rumlow stared at him for another minute, judging him, deciding whether or not his reasons held merit. Steve knew they did. He was certain what he said was true. If Brushov managed to unload his serum onto the black market, it would be chaos. The evil regimes of the world could buy it. Use it to oppress and turn anyone to their cause. Minds poisoned. Men turned into animals and psychopaths. Soldiers twisted into monsters. Rage and homicide and destruction. They couldn't let that happen. Rumlow let loose a short breath. No matter their differing opinions, they had a duty to stop this. "Fine. But we're requesting backup. The helicarrier's thirty minutes of flight time away."

Steve clenched his teeth. If this was what he had to concede to get this done, he'd do it. No matter what Fury wanted with the serum, Steve would rather have it in his hands than Brushov's. With any luck, they could destroy that ship before _anyone_ could take it. "Call it in. Backup and medical."

"You heard the Cap," Rumlow called to the pilot, and a moment later the man's calm voice sounded through the cockpit as he contacted the helicarrier and gave them the quinjet's coordinates. Rumlow looked to the lab tech, who was as white as a ghost with what had happened. The STRIKE commander scowled at the young man in irritation. "You got something yet on that other ship?"

"I'm working on it, sir," the technician stammered. His laptop had survived the skirmish intact, and he was furiously typing on it. "If the other ship is configured the same as the last one, I've got something to guide me now. I'm scanning through the satellite images on the Don and Volga Rivers to find a match."

Rumlow wasn't satisfied with that. He limped back to the rear of the jet, where Natasha sat with her hands bound behind her back and her ankles tied together in front of her. Her head was bowed, her damp hair covering her face like a curtain, hiding her. She was trembling, though whether from pain, fear, or anger, Steve couldn't say. "Romanoff," Rumlow said. Rollins had his gun on her as well as most of the rest of the team. Steve bit the inside of his cheek until he drew blood, but he kept silent. "General Brushov has another ship like the one you were on. Where is it?"

Natasha said nothing. Steve glanced between Rumlow's wrathful visage and her shrouded face, praying that she came around, that she knew the answer and simply told them. Tension crackled in the air. Rumlow shook his head, his jaw taut in frustration. "Romanoff! Answer me! You were with him for days. He must have told you something. Where is the other ship headed? Where is he headed?"

Silence. Natasha slowly looked up, blue eyes peering through the sodden red locks falling before them. The whites of her eyes seemed very bright, and her pupils were constricted and narrowed. She looked past Rumlow, looked past Perry and the other agents and the guns leveled on her, and focused on Steve. Her hungry, violent gaze was unwavering. Her lips turned into that smile again. Stunning. Thrilling. Deadly. _"Ty moya," _she whispered. The insanity shone in her eyes. _"Ty moya."_

Rumlow shook his head and turned to Steve. "What did she say?"

Steve swallowed thickly. His blood ran cold. "Nothing. She's too out of it."

Rollins looked infuriated and frustrated, like he wanted to belt her. If he raised his hand against her… "Got it," the lab tech called, drawing the attention of the STRIKE agents. He was smiling, evidently pretty proud of himself until the angry eyes of the STRIKE Team fell to him. Then he swallowed nervously and turned back to his laptop. "It was actually pretty easy once I fed the computer the right information." Rumlow limped back to the display, which had a large crack that jaggedly went through the once flawless screen. The maps zoomed into Volgograd and then again to a dock on the Volga River. "Mansk Port at the end of the canal. We can be there in five minutes. I'm sending the coordinates to the cockpit."

"What about Brushov's chopper?"

The tech worked a second more, shaking his head slowly. "If it's there, I can't see it."

_Damn it._ That meant Brushov could already have escaped. But as dismaying as that was, it could be worse, and Steve felt fear wash over him. The other ship had obviously been ahead of the one they'd just destroyed. How far ahead was the issue. If it had been at the port for a while, all of this could end up being for nothing. "Can you tell how long it's been docked?"

"Hard to say. I don't have enough consistent imaging." The young man's face was bathed in flickering light as he rapidly scrolled through pictures of the docks, his eyes narrowed in concentration. "Looks like about two hours. I've got them there at 0100 hours, but not before."

"Then they might not have unloaded the serum yet," Steve surmised in relief, glancing at Rumlow, "at least not all of it."

"Assuming this is the only place they've stopped," Rumlow added worriedly. Steve inwardly grimaced. Still, this was the best they could do, and there was no time for anything else. This was their only chance to stop this before it spiraled out of control, before Brushov unleashed the serum like wildfire.

Rumlow stood straighter. If his injury pained him, it wasn't obvious as he donned the calm mask of a leader and turned to the STRIKE Team. "Listen up! This is a tactical strike against a docked vessel in Russian territory. We go in fast and destroy Brushov's ship plus any vehicles he's using to transport the serum inland. Kill any resistance on sight, but arrest Brushov if possible. We shut this down _now_. No mistakes." He glanced to Natasha's bound form. "Rollins, Perry, remain with Romanoff. Make sure she stays put. Last thing we need is for her to run home to daddy and make a hostage situation out of this."

Rollins nodded and gruffly said, "Yes, sir." He didn't look pleased, his gun still directed at Natasha and his face taut with ruthless anger. Steve wasn't pleased either, but he had to let it go.

The STRIKE Team spent the next short minutes preparing again for battle. They were worn and injured but ready for a fight. Grenades and explosives were stocked. Guns were reloaded. Rumlow ordered the pilots to stay close and offer air support and coordinate offensive efforts with SHIELD reinforcements when they arrived. Then he took a second to peel off his combat vest, wrap a bandage around the gunshot in his side, and press the vest back to it as tightly as he dared. "Let's make it happen."

"ETA: one minute!"

"Hit 'em hard and hit 'em fast."

A round of agreement went through the group, and the rear to the quinjet opened again. Steve dropped to his knees in front of Natasha, ignoring the pain stabbing through his back. He also ignored Rollins glaring at him. He laid his hands on Natasha's knees. "Nat," he said. She was shaking more than before, and he thought it was in fear now. He wondered if she was coming back. He wondered if she was freeing herself, escaping the hell inside her mind and climbing out of the pit to reach him. "Nat, listen."

Outside the water was coming closer and closer to the jet as it descended rapidly and swooped low for deployment. They were racing toward the dock. There was just a moment. Maybe two. "Look at me," Steve softly said. All the pain and fear and anguish he pushed down deep. He only cared about her. Summoning his resolve, he cupped her face in his hands, trying to anchor her and provide some small bit of comfort in a world of pain and fear. She stiffened and shivered more and pulled away, drawing into herself. She was lost in what Brushov had done to her. The damage went so deep that for the first time in his life he truly contemplated hurting someone else to ease his own anger. That frightened him so he shoved that down even farther. He wasn't going to let her go. He would never let her go. "Natasha. Look at me. Please."

Finally she did. He thought he saw her in the storm of emotions he found in her eyes. Tears and rage and pain. So much pain. He tenderly swept his thumbs across her cheeks, brushing away the wetness. He could get her back. He would get her back. _He would save her._ "I'm going to stop him. I'm going to end this. And then I'm going to take you home."

_"Ty moya,"_ she whispered.

He smiled comfortingly. _"Da. Ya vash."_

The STRIKE Team jumped out. This was it. He stood and pulled his shield from his back and ran out to keep his promise.

* * *

The men aboard ship they'd destroyed had obviously warned their compatriots that SHIELD was coming because the minute the agents stepped off the quinjet, they were under fire. A barrage of bullets greeted them, clanking loudly against the metal and concrete of the dock. Brushov's men were all over: on the deck of the ship moored to their left, in the ugly buildings and towers in front of them, on the road besides open trucks that they were in the process of loading. The quinjet hovered at the end of the dock, and when the last of the team was clear it rotated, bullets peppering its exterior as it swung around to bring its own weapons to bear. The miniguns whirred as they spun, ejecting spent shell casings down onto the agents below like rain. And Brushov's men fell like flies.

Captain America charged onto the dock, his shield flashing in the lights. He stood in front of the SHIELD agents for a moment, protecting them from the spray of gunfire as much as possible, before running down the dock. The STRIKE Team followed him, guns pressed up to shoulders and eyes narrowed down sights and through scopes. They moved like a well-oiled machine, coordinated and deadly, trained specialists that these sloppy and unrestrained soldiers had no chance of defeating. Rifles cracked as the team began to pick off their enemies, men struck in the head and chest and legs, bodies tumbling from the dock into the water around them.

Steve moved like lightning. He was steadfast and determined, the pain from his injuries _gone_ from his mind as he kicked and punched and cut through the wave of attackers like a warn knife went through butter. He threw his shield, knocking out an assassin from the ship's deck who was trying to fire down on them from above, and barreled into the man closest to him. The thug yowled before falling into the narrow space between the hull of the ship and the dock. Steve brought up his fist, smashing the face of another man attacking him from behind. He paused to catch his shield as it returned and quickly slid it to his back, leaping mightily up and over a collection of boxes to get at the men taking refuge behind them. He kicked one back with a crunch, snatched the knife from another who was foolishly trying to stab him, and threw that at the third before they even had a chance to run. "Move forward!" he called over the communications link, pulling his shield again and using it to catch a slovenly blow from another assailant. He rammed the shield into the thug's face before knocking him into another wave of soldiers coming down along one of the ramps from the ship.

"STRIKE, fan out," Rumlow ordered, firing two shots in quick succession at a pair of snipers stationed on the ship's deck. He provided cover while more of the team sprinted forward. Steve batted away a grenade that flew toward them, the metallic ball ringing against his shield before soaring back toward the man who'd thrown it. It exploded a breath later, taking one of the small buildings ahead of them with it in a ball of fire.

"RPG!"

The STRIKE Team scattered at the quick warning, seeking cover behind cargo where they could. The missile was fired from the deck of the ship and hit the dock. Steve dove to the hard concrete, pain rushing over him as he scrambled away a second before the blast. He pressed his back to a pile of boxes. The ground exploded behind him, smashing cement and bending metal and showering them with a rain of fiery shards. Another missile careened forth from the ship, streaking through the humid night toward the quinjet. The pilots banked, barely avoiding it. "Disengage!" Rumlow ordered. "Repeat: disengage!"

The quinjet maneuvered evasively, dodging another RPG, before pulling sharply upward into the sky. Through the smoke, Steve looked to the ship and saw three men wielding the rocket launchers. The dock shook again as another RPG struck it. He thought he heard someone scream over the ringing in his ears. Panic pulsed through him, but it didn't let that slow him as he scrambled to his feet, leapt in one powerful motion onto the pile of smoldering crates behind him. He jumped the rest of the distance upward to the deck of the ship.

He landed with a thud among the shooters. The men were alarmed at his appearance, shouting in Russian with wide eyes and fumbling hands, but he was much faster than them. He jumped again, taking out two at a time with each leg in a split kick before landing and rolling and sweeping the feet out from the last man. The soldier scrambled back in terror, swinging around the rocket launcher he'd been reloading and hastily pulling the trigger. Steve ducked as the rocket streaked over his left shoulder, close enough to the blast to feel his skin along his shoulder burn beneath his uniform. The RPG collided with the railing and deck behind them in an explosion that flung them both back. Even slowed as he was by his injuries, Steve recovered much quicker than his opponent. He stuck his hands in the other's vest as he rolled to his feet. He tossed him clear across the deck and out into the water.

The distinctive sound of bullets ramming into metal made him run, and he glanced over his shoulder quickly to find a slew of soldiers shooting at him from the bridge. He scrambled to protect himself, twisting and pulling his shield forward and balling himself behind it as the gunfire rained upon him. Rotors cut through the air loudly overhead, and the quinjet pulled back into the fray, leveling itself with the bridge and unloading round after round into the men there. Glass shattered and people screamed.

Steve took their distraction to his advantage, standing to his full height. Something cracked in his back at all this harsh treatment, dropping him to his knees and cruelly stealing his breath. Steve blinked tears from his eyes, everything growing distant and hazy as though he was viewing the world through a tunnel. He braced his knuckles to the metal beneath him and pushed upward, trying to catch his wind and get above it and get to his feet – _get up get up go!_

He did. "Cap! Cap, are you okay?" Rumlow's voice yelled in his ear.

Steve swallowed the burn of bile in the back of his throat and staggered down the deck. He gathered his composure and sprinted more smoothly, knocking a man down as he did. Something exploded behind him, shoving him forward, but he kept his balance and flung his shield with all of his power at another set of snipers tormenting the STRIKE Team on the dock below. "Yeah!" he called back, pausing a second to raise his glove to his mouth. His shield rang as it flew back to him. "You?"

"Getting hammered down here!" Another ear-splitting bang resounded, and a significant portion of the dock vanished in a plume of black, oily smoke. Steve snatched up a fallen AK-47, quickly rushed to the railing, took aim, and shot at the men across the dock. They went down, their RPG launchers falling from limp fingers. One ignited as it struck the ground, blowing up a portion of a long building on the other side of the road. Steve ducked, tossing the spent gun, as a rain of gunfire descended upon him again. He fled from the railing, nearly colliding with another wave of soldiers as they ran onto the deck in a last attempt to protect their boss' plans. Steve whirled, grabbing the arm of one of the men and spinning him with him before kicking him squarely in the back with enough power to topple his buddies. The super soldier was on the next guy immediately, driving his shield down into the huge thug's abdomen. He doubled over. Two quick strikes of his knee into the other man's stomach dropped him. Steve flipped over the collapsing body, pulling his shield with him and tucking it against his chest to avoid getting hit by the shotgun being emptied in his direction. One of the other men screamed as the deflected slugs struck him. They were getting desperate, unable to contend with Captain America, and one of the terrified soldiers ripped a grenade from his baldric that was full of explosives and flicked the pin loose before tossing it at Steve. Steve had grabbed another man, choking him, when he spotting the live grenade flying toward him. He downed the thug he held, leapt, caught it, and threw it back.

The explosion was loud, but not as loud as the gunfire ratcheting across the deck. It hit hard and fast, indiscriminately killing in a wild attempt to take down Captain America. Steve moved his shield to his back to protect himself as much as possible and slid to the deck next to the smoldering remains of the man with the grenades. He yanked the baldric from the burnt chest and ran aft, devouring the distance to the open cargo hold. The gunfire followed him, but he didn't look back, didn't slow. The smoke before him hung heavily in the humid night and he charged through it. The hold was dead ahead. To the right the loading crane was working, the men scrambling faster and in futility to raise the crates from below. Steve pulled the pins from every grenade hooked to the baldric. His left leg nearly buckled with the effort of running, but it held fast, and so did he. He took one huge leap.

Time seemed to slow as he flew across the wide and open hold. He landed on the flatbed of the crane, rolled, and then jumped again. There were men below, men scrambling to move cargo, men scrambling for their guns. The hold was still nearly full of the gray crates that contained the serum. In a split second, he threw the baldric full of grenades down. And then he hit the deck on the other side and staggered, pin-wheeling to keep his balance.

A bullet went straight through his right hand. Steve howled in pain, immediately drawing the damaged limb to his chest and scrambling away for cover behind some of the crates that had already been lifted to the deck. Only a breath passed before the grenades detonated in the hold, and the deck shook violently as fire and smoke spewed up through the open doors. The ship shuddered, a series of explosions rocking it in a quick, relentless procession, and Steve choked on the acrid smoke that enveloped him. It took a long time for the noise to quiet to the point where he could hear and think. He fought to catch his breath, fought the pain from a body too brutalized to keep fighting, and cradled his bleeding hand to his chest. He summoned the strength to dart a glance to it to see how bad the damage was. The shot had cut right through his palm and exited out the back of his hand. He'd been lucky. A larger caliber bullet would have taken some fingers or worse.

As it was, though, he couldn't use the hand effectively and the pain was more than a nuisance. "Cap!" Rumlow's voice sounded raw and strained in his ear. "Status! We don't have a visual on you!"

Steve closed his eyes and tiredly pressed himself tighter to the crates. He couldn't seem to catch his breath, and his heart was weary and aching. He lifted his wrist. "Hold's destroyed," he gasped into the communications link. "But they already moved some of the serum. Stop the trucks."

"We're on it. Air support?"

"Roger," answered one of the quinjet's pilots, and the jet whooshed overhead, heading towards the trucks trying to escape the firefight with their prize.

Rumlow tensely asked, "Any sign of Brushov?"

"None," Steve said.

"No time to look for him. We're taking heavy casualties." _Damn it. _"There are two Harriers in bound in five minutes. Can you get clear of the ship?"

Steve drew a deep breath. It was excruciating, but he managed to push his bloody hand through the leather grips of his shield. It was even more painful and difficult to get his numb, slick fingers to curl and stay tight around the second strap. He was more than capable of using his left hand; the serum had made him ambidextrous. However, he still preferred to use and was more used to fighting with his right hand. At least his shield would protect it this way. "Yeah, don't worry about me."

"Copy that."

Someone suddenly grabbed him by the shoulder. Fingers curled like iron into his flesh and hauled him from behind the crates. Steve cried out as the world spun and the disoriented, nauseating sense of flying weightlessly assailed him. Smoke and blackness twisted and blurred, and he hit the deck hard on his right side, his head whacking painfully into the metal. He rolled and slid a few feet, a mounting sense of panic reminding him harshly that the cargo hold was _right there_. He twisted and just barely got his left hand around the edge of the deck, the rest of his body falling down the hold. Steve couldn't hold in his scream as all of his weight was thrown onto his shoulder, his arm nearly yanked from his socket and his back sending shooting bolts of agony up and down his body. But he didn't fall.

Heat and smoke engulfed him as he dangled, battling unconsciousness. With a cry of effort, he threw his right arm up onto the deck and pulled himself up. He panted, tears bleeding from his eyes from the acrid stench of burning oil, and rolled onto the security of the ground. Then he climbed to his feet.

Through the curtains of black and gray, the Red Guardian emerged. He stalked closer, wearing a black uniform with a red star blazing upon his chest. Fire glowed in his eyes. His face was contorted in a malicious scowl. Steve couldn't catch his wind, could hardly bear to stand straight, as Shostakov approached. "You don't have to do this!" he shouted over the roar of the fire and the battle raging all around them. He summoned courage and strength and finally made his body taut and confident. He lowered his shield arm, revealing his own star shining silver upon his chest and his calm face. "You don't have to do this. He doesn't own you."

The Red Guardian snarled. His eyes were wild in anticipation. Steve drew as deep a breath as his battered body would allow and lifted his chin. "You can walk away. You don't have to fight. Please. Walk away." He didn't think he could stop that now. He didn't think there was anything left of the man underneath everything Brushov had done to him. His perverse version of the super soldier serum. The insanity serum. Years of mental manipulation and physical torture. Shostakov was too far gone, too lost in the madness.

Beyond saving.

But not beyond stopping. Steve _would_ stop him.

With an inhuman scream, the Red Guardian threw a fist at him. Steve brought his shield back up, catching the blow but staggering under its force. He whirled, delivering a quick punch of his own that the other man blocked against his forearm. He charged into the Guardian, driving him against him to put some distance between them and the flaming pit behind them. The Red Guardian pushed back, digging his boots into the deck, so Steve lowered himself to gain momentum. The Guardian lost his footing and went down heavily, swinging his right arm in a huge arc that caught Steve across the face. The blow was powerful enough to send Steve flying, twisting in the air before hitting the side of the ship hard.

There was no time to be dazed. The Red Guardian sprang to his feet and ran at him, throwing punches and kicks furiously. Every one of them Steve blocked. Every one of them had all of the Guardian's strength behind them, fueled by every bit of his rage. Steve ducked below a blow, the Red Guardian's hand flying sharply into the wall. The metal dented under the force, and his fingers cracked. He screamed in pain and frustration. Steve stepped around him, wrapping his left hand around Shostakov's wrist as he flailed and twisted the limb behind the other man's back. Steve rammed him once, twice, three and four times into the unforgiving side of the ship. The Guardian regained enough of his wits to catch himself with his free hand the last time. He slammed his elbow into Steve's midriff and then grabbed Steve's left hand. A twist of his body had him freed enough to smack his face into Steve's. Steve grasped the other man around the neck, lifting him a good foot off the deck and squeezing his throat before throwing him down.

The Red Guardian seemed to remember who he was fighting and how badly he'd hurt his opponent before. He lashed out from the deck, kicking Steve in the left leg before he could attack again. Steve screamed, falling to his right knee. The Guardian was on his feet in a flash, driving Steve down further with a powerful punch upon his shield. Steve wrapped his other hand in the straps, struggling to reinforce his grip against the blow. The Guardian wailed loudly, punching down harder and harder and harder, relentless and punishing, trying to crush his adversary. It was like a battering ram slamming against him. Steve gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as the force of the impacts jostled his wounded hand. The deck of the ship rocked and vibrated again, disrupting the Guardian's balance for just a second but a second was all Steve needed. He rose, forcing his damaged leg to hold his weight, and pummeled the Guardian fast with his shield. Steve pressed his advantage, leveraging the moment and pushing the other soldier back. Shostakov tried to counter, but Steve anticipated his moves and redirected, his mind and body moving faster than he thought possible given his compromised state. He flung the Red Guardian back, spinning and jumping and kicking hard into the chest of the other man. The Guardian staggered, flushed and dizzied, treading too closely to the fire raging behind him. The flames licked at him, reaching for him, and he yelled his rage and pain, rolling to the side to try and avoid the burning wreckage.

"The Red Guardian is on the deck!" Rumlow shouted over the communications link. "He's fighting the Cap! Can anyone get a clear shot?"

"Negative! Cap's in the way!"

"Damn it, we have to help! Somebody get up on the deck of the ship! Ramirez, where the hell are–" The deck vibrated again, the entirety of it dropping it seemed a good six inches under their feet. It was burning below them. And the Red Guardian was falling into the fire.

Steve snatched him, hauling him back. The Red Guardian tried to round on him, but the punch he threw was more power than purpose and Steve easily caught it against his shield. Shostakov's fist slid to the right. Steve grabbed him as he stumbled forward and flipped him over his shoulder. He kept his hold on his arm and twisted fast and hard, dislocating the other man's shoulder with a sickeningly loud pop. He threw the limp arm down on the Red Guardian's gasping body before grabbing the man's black shirt and hauling him up and driving a fist into his jaw. Then he knelt over him, pressing the smooth edge of his shield to the Guardian's heaving neck.

So now it came to it again. Steve panted, sweat burning his eyes and thick in his hair, the night hot and alive with fear and fire. He could thrust his shield down and break Shostakov's neck and this would all be over. Brushov's warning blared inside him, pounding in time with his laboring heart. _"Kill him. It is a fight to the death. He will not surrender and he will not stop. To win, you must kill him."_ His own rage never felt so strong, so empowering. Everything that had been done to him. Everything that had been done to Natasha. The damage Brushov had caused and all the suffering he could cause still. And Shostakov was beyond salvaging. His mind was gone, too destroyed to bring back, to rehabilitate. If Steve didn't end him now, he could again lose the chance. And next time he might not be so fortunate to survive. The next fight he might not win.

_Kill him._

"No," he whispered. He was naïve and idealistic to a fault sometimes, but he was a good man. He'd promised to be one no matter what. And good men didn't kill innocents. Good men believed in the benefit of the doubt, in hope, in second chances. He wouldn't take someone's life just because there was no way to save it. _He wouldn't._ "Yield," he hoarsely ordered, his own voice rough and alien to his throbbing ears. The Red Guardian's eyes flared in rage, but with Steve pinning him as he was, there was no way for him to fight. "Yield!"

"Cap, you got him?" Rumlow frantically buzzed in his ear. "Rogers! Do you have him down? Is he dead?"

Steve drew as deep a breath as he could manage. The Red Guardian was in a great deal of pain, and he wasn't struggling anymore. He figured that was as close as he was going to get to an admission of defeat. He slowly pushed himself to his feet, every ounce of skin and muscle and bone and nerve protesting. He kept a foot on Shostakov's chest as he pulled his shield arm upward to bring the communicator closer, exposing his lower body. "ETA on the jets?"

"Less than two minutes." Two minutes. How the hell was he going to get Shostakov out of here in two minutes?

The sharp crack of a rifle resounded, and Steve felt something tear through his left leg. He stumbled with a cry, falling back, and the Red Guardian was on his feet again in a roar. Pain exploded along his thigh, electrocuting nerves that were already tortured to the brink, and wet warmth spread along his flesh front and back. "Cap's been hit!" Rumlow cried, but his voice was getting more and more distant. "He needs help up there! Can anyone copy? Please tell me _someone_ has a shot…"

Another explosion drowned out the STRIKE Team's frantic shouts. A flood of Brushov's soldiers ran along the deck. The ship creaked and moaned as a wayward RPG struck the side further down, tipping it to the left and blowing away a significant portion of the deck and hull. The men screamed. They were attempting to flee, shouting at the Red Guardian in Russian to abandon the fight and retreat. They got in Shostakov's way as he stalked toward Steve, and the soldier grabbed one and snapped his neck like it was nothing before throwing his body into the others. Steve pressed his left hand to the pulsing, gushing wound in his leg, trying to force himself to get up. The Red Guardian stomped closer, the deck seemingly shaking under each heavy footfall. He needed to get up. _Get up! Get up!_

He finally got his body to move, warding away the agony and panic, and it was just in time because the Red Guardian was on him. He brought up his shield, blocking and standing his ground. His leg was holding his weight for the moment but he knew that wouldn't last if he moved. The Guardian seemed shaken, wild and fazed and uncertain, sloppier and more violent in his attacks. Steve punched him back, blocking and deflecting and countering, fighting the pain and fatigue and blood loss as much as he was fighting Shostakov. He wasn't going to fall. _He wasn't going to fall._ Not this time. "Cap, the airstrike will be here any second. Do you want me to call it off?" Steve could hardly think with the pounding of his heart in his head and the roar of fire all around him. The Red Guardian was burned and wild, covered in soot and blood. His dislocated shoulder was slowing him, and Steve took the opportunity to drive his fist into the other man's chest. It sent him reeling. "Cap? Do you copy?"

He didn't think he could run. He didn't think he could get away. His back was stiff and slowing him. His left leg was thrumming in time with his heart. He was spent in every way imaginable. And the Guardian would never let him escape. "I copy," he gasped, watching miserably as Shostakov climbed back to his feet. The other soldier was about as lost and battered. This wasn't going to end with a winner and a loser. It was simply going to end. And they both were going to die. "Don't call it off."

"But–"

There was no time to argue further. The Red Guardian launched himself at him with a scream of absolute rage, and Steve went down under his weight. His back slammed into the deck, sending hot blasts of pain shooting through every inch of him, and he lay helpless under the Guardian. Something in his abdomen ripped, internal injuries reopening with the force. His ribs cracked. The man straddled him, punching him in the jaw. The next blow Steve caught. The Guardian hadn't been prepared for that, and when Steve snapped his wrist, he howled in misery.

There was a distant roar. It was soft at first but it rapidly grew louder and louder, as loud as thunder booming overhead. Suddenly there was light blasting across the sky. The SHIELD jets. Missiles launched from above struck the ship, harsh and fast and accurate. The hull exploded. The deck was incinerated. What was left of the serum burned. Men died. Brushov's weapons were destroyed.

Things shivered and shuddered and came apart all around them. Fire washed over them and everything began to tip and the ship listed, falling slowly toward the dock beside it. But the Guardian didn't care. His eyes were teeming with rage, with insanity, with the driving need to cause pain and death, and he balled his broken hand and rammed it into Steve's temple. The ship was collapsing under them, scorched and shattered metal bending and giving way with loud, awful screeches. It didn't matter. They were going to die, and this monster was still trying to kill him.

The Guardian howled and sobbed at the same time, his bloodied face hideous with sweat and tears and soot, as he slammed his fist into Steve's face over and over and over again until Steve's vision blurred and things just stopped hurting. When that no longer sated him, he grabbed Steve's throat and squeezed. Steve choked; it was already difficult to breathe with his damaged back and the weight of the other man crushing him, but now it was impossible. He got his left hand around the thick fingers and pried and twisted and broke them, but it was not enough to free himself. He kicked vainly and with every bit of his remaining strength, fueled now only by panic and a desperate wish to live. The world was tilting. They were sliding haplessly down the deck, flaming debris going with them, headed toward the remains of the railing. _Everything_ was coming down, knocked loose in a deadly cascade. The crane bent behind them, the flatbed too heavy for the cables and snapping loose. It fell into the cargo hold. The top of the crane was wrenched and it broke free. The mangled metal slammed and rolled down the deck. It collided against the railing behind them, narrowly missing them. Now it was precariously balanced, the cables twisted and coiled beside it.

Steve squirmed weakly. Everything slowed, reduced to a distant, hollow hum of noise. The smoke swirled overhead, the night hot and vast and deeply dark. It took some measure of rational thought for him to recognize it wasn't the night that was so dark. His vision was blackening. He blinked languidly. His heart was straining a last few panicked beats against his sternum. And the eyes above him were red and violent and sadistically gleeful as life faded.

Something moved on the other side of the ship. He didn't realize what it was at first. A dark blob groaned and contorted and struggled. Then the crane snapped from its supports, falling and careening toward them. It was coming so slowly it seemed, enveloped in fire, screaming and cutting through the air. Somehow seeing that brought his body back to him. Somehow that returned thought to his mind and power to his limbs. There was weight on his right arm, wonderful, _familiar_ weight. Strength surged through Steve, and he swung his shield up and rammed it into the side of Shostakov's head. The Red Guardian yelped and the pressure was gone from his chest. Steve rolled, scrambled, crawled, _fought_ for every inch between him and the side of the ship. He grabbed the cables and threw himself over the edge.

The crane struck the Red Guardian. A horrific scream rent the air as Shostakov was crushed and carried over the side. The mess of fiery metal slammed down onto the dock below with a bang.

Steve dangled from the side of the ship. The world spun and spun wildly, and he fought to stay awake, clinging to consciousness as ardently as he was clinging to the cables. More fiery wreckage spilled down, narrowly missing him. The ship tilted further, sliding to its side, wedging itself against the dock. The motion jolted him lower toward the dock and the debris. Then the cables snapped and he fell.

* * *

"Romanoff–"

"… lost… shot Perry… Repeat: she is armed."

"Get her back!"

"… Find Rogers… He's down. Find him!"

"Medics are in bound!"

"Need some help!"

"Shit… under control… Go, god damn it! We need to get her!"

Steve opened his eyes. He didn't quite understand what he was seeing. He blinked, ash and embers and fire drizzling slowly down on him. He had a fuzzy, indistinct impression that he should be shocked that he was alive, but it was too difficult to manage a coherent thought. He was in pain. He was in so much pain.

He groaned. Voices were yelling in his ear. He didn't quite remember who or why, but they were familiar. Nothing made sense, not the hull of the ship looming over him or the rush of desperate words. Tears that had been trapped in his eyes were freed and rolled down his temples and into his hair. There was a loud, inhuman shriek, metal suffering and stretching, and everything glowed orange and yellow and red. Fire and smoke.

A hoarse moan filled his ears, and he realized belatedly it had come from him. He tried to raise his arm, his singed shield clattering uselessly to the filthy ground. Nothing seemed to work right, not his lungs or his legs or his arms or his head. It was enough to simply lie as he was, watching flames lick the night sky, watching the gray and green metal leaning over him like a canopy. Listening to that rumble of random voices and the roar of things burning to death and the sound of jet engines and guns. Shock grabbed him and hauled him back down toward the darkness and he went without a fight.

But it was only a moment that he blacked out. There was another groan, louder and filled with agony, and this time it wasn't from him. That hoarse whimper was enough to pierce the veil of confusion and delirium around his mind, and he opened his eyes and sat up before he realized what a tremendously bad idea that was. The pain that had been dull and miserable was now shooting, jolting through his hapless body until he could hardly stand it.

Steve rolled to his knees. He tasted blood in his mouth, his mouth that was dry with ash and smoke, and he coughed and gagged. The world turned and tilted lazily around him. His left leg refused to bend, refused to do anything other than throb in misery. He dragged himself along the ground, following the moaning that was somehow louder than the fire and the voices and his own heart thudding wearily in his chest. He didn't have to go far before he found the Red Guardian trapped beneath the wreckage of the crane. Trapped and pinned. Impaled by the rods and supports that had once secured the crane to the deck of the ship. They had driven straight through Shostakov's chest and abdomen and into the cement below. It was gruesome.

The Red Guardian sobbed and gasped for breath, blood slipping down his chin as it flooded up his throat. He had his hands wrapped around the metal that ran through his body, but he no longer had the strength to pull it free. Steve looked down on him, alarmed and horrified. He thought he should do something, but there was nothing to be done. Blood spread beneath the body in a glistening, crimson lake rolling over the concrete. Shostakov was bleeding out quickly. In a matter of seconds, he would be dead.

Steve scooted himself closer to the wreckage until he was sitting beside Shostakov's head. The man labored frantically for air that wouldn't come in the metal cage that was about to become his tomb. Steve was numb and brutalized to the point where he didn't think he could feel anymore. But he did feel. Regret. Pity. Sadness. "I'm sorry, Alexei." _I'm sorry it came to this._

The Red Guardian choked. At long last his brown eyes _focused _and Steve saw the young man beneath the monster. The insanity was dying, too, escaping his body in the pulse of red, fading away with each beat of a weakening heart. It was disappearing, leaving only the scars. Only the fear. Only the pain. The world burned around them, scorched and washed in blood. With all that remained of his strength, Alexei flung out his hand and roughly took Steve's arm and pulled him closer. He barely had the breath to speak, but he did so anyway in a raspy, desperate whisper. _"__Pozabot'sya o ney. Pozhaluysta."_

Steve nodded. _"Ya eto sdelayu. Ya obeshchayu."_

Alexei was satisfied with that. His broken chest exhaled one last time, and he was gone.

Steve swallowed, his throat so very dry and tight. A long, quivering breath fled him. He reached through the twisted metal that surrounded the Red Guardian and carefully pulled the man's eyes shut. He closed his own, losing himself in the pain for a moment, before moving away and getting his feet beneath him. _Get up._ He was trying. He tried to stand. He tried to turn around.

Hands grabbed him. Blue eyes met blue eyes. Lips crushed lips. A shared breath. A shared heartbeat. And then a gun went off.

The echo of that bang was loud, louder and more violent than anything he'd ever heard. It shot through to his core. Natasha backed away from him, her bruised mouth leaving his, her warmth disappearing from his arms. The gun was covered in blood. It was unwavering, unfaltering, steady and true. She held it at his chest, the barrel brushing over his uniform. She held it there. _She'd shot him._

It was nothing to her. He was nothing to her. _Nothing._ Her eyes were dead and empty. She was gone. He couldn't save her. He never had a chance.

"Romanoff, no! _No!_"

Those voices were screaming again. Dark figures came, running through the wreckage. Steve looked down and saw blood spreading over his chest, consuming the bright star he always wore, coating his shaking hands and covering his body. Spilling from a hole in his heart. Suddenly he couldn't breathe. His legs buckled. He collapsed down onto his knees. There were words floating around his head. Thoughts. Fleeting sensations and emotions. Sweet lips and tender touches and passion and pleasure. Hope. Love. It was all burning.

There were arms around her, restraining her. There were arms around him, cradling him. Desperate words imploring him to hang on, to stay awake, to keep fighting. He didn't think he could anymore.

She watched him die. She was beautiful. A flower filled with poison. A biting kiss. "You're mine," she said.

He was. He'd forgotten what that meant.

She was Black Widow, and Black Widow killed the men who loved her.

* * *

_Ty moya. – _You're mine.  
_Da. Ya vash. – _Yes. I'm yours.  
_Pozabot'sya o ney. Pozhaluysta. – _Take care of her. Please.  
_Ya eto sdelayu. Ya obeshchayu. – _I will. I promise.


	11. Chapter 11

**DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger, __Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, violence, adult situations)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **The response to the last chapter was amazing. Really. I appreciate everyone's comments and compliments so much! Well, here we are, back where we started. Thanks for reading!

**RED RAIN**

**11**

"_Kill him."_

She had.

"_Kill him and come home. You belong to me, Natalia."_

She did. And Steve belonged to her. Steve was hers. And she felt things for him that she'd never felt before. Terrifying things. Complete abandon. Unhinged love. Cold possession. Jealousy. Fearful aggression. Tentative hope. _"You're mine."_

_"Yes, I'm yours."_

She had taken him. She'd used him. She'd abused him. She was cruel and selfish and not what she seemed. She was shadow and passion and fire and sweetness. _"You are beautiful, Natalia. Men will forget themselves to have but a taste of you."_ They did. Steve had. He'd forgotten who she was, what she was. She'd made him forget. She had killed so many men, lesser men, a lifetime filled with lust and murder. It was power, pure and simple. _"You desire power, Natalia. I can give you that and so much more."_

_No!_ _I don't want it! I don't want it!_

She wanted Steve, but he was gone. They'd taken him from her.

No. She'd shot him.

"Steve!"

"Easy, Nat. Just take it easy."

She hurt. She had for so long, long enough that the pain had grown quiet and subtle and a part of her soul. It was never gone. It had never left, even if she'd convinced herself otherwise. Even though she'd trapped it and smothered it until it was quiet, she was never entirely free of it. And when the fire came, it burned away the cage and let the demons loose upon her. The pain had roared and reared and had taken her like she had taken him: mind and body and soul. It was all she knew. All she deserved to know. A storm of horror and hatred. Years of vicious tortures, of wicked murders, of the innumerable terrible things that she'd done. These things blurred before her eyes, consumed by heat and flames. What she had done to him, however, was far beyond even a life full of crimes. This was the worse. _This was the worst._ She was irredeemable. She was damaged. She was beyond salvation.

Steve was still going to try. _"Come with me. I'll protect you. You know me. This isn't you. This isn't you! He doesn't own you!"_

_ Yes, he does. "You belong to me, Natalia. Kill him and come home."_

A thousand times this stampeded through her mind. A million times she suffered through it. It was inescapable, inevitable. Fate. The fire forced this justification onto her until she had no choice but to believe it. From the moment she'd kissed him, the moment he'd stood by her side when he should have run, the moment he'd trusted her when he should have known better, it had been unavoidable. He deserved what had happened to him. _He deserved it. _He was hers, and she could do with him as she wanted. Sex. Love. Betrayal. And then murder.

_No! Please! Please stop it! You're hurting him!_ But she couldn't stop herself. The need to obey, to complete her mission, was driving, more powerful than doubt or fear or love. And it was fueled by insanity so strong she could do nothing but cower before its might. Cower and submit. _Escape. _She could get free, cut herself loose on the sharp glass on the floor of the jet… _Get the gun_… It felt so _good_ in her hands. Her fingers curled around the grip. The trigger. _Find him._ Do what she had been trained to do, what she had been made to do. What she had been ordered to do by her handler. _"Kill him, Natalia. Kill him and come home."_

_"You won't hurt me. You can't."_

She would. She had. And she did. And some part of her, the monster and the madness, had _enjoyed _it. The power of taking his body, his lips, his breath. His life. Power and rage, so much rage. This was the worst torture she had ever known, a prison of flame and fury in which she heard and felt and saw and touched and tasted… And she couldn't stop herself.

"Please, make it stop…"

"Hang on. It'll all be over soon."

But it wasn't. It never would be. She couldn't come back from this. Not from this.

_"Please come back to me. Please. I'm with you no matter what." _But Steve wasn't with her. He wasn't because she'd killed him. "_I love you, Nat."_

_Stop. Don't do this. Don't trust me. Don't love me._

_"You belong to me, Natalia. Black Widow does not feel. Black Widow does not love."_

Black Widow felt, sometimes in ways that terrified her. And Black Widow did love. More than she could ever admit. But emotions were butchered, scattered by the fire, burned and scorched until nothing good remained. She didn't know herself.

_"You know me. You know I love you."_

"Steve, please… Get away from me. Go. Run!"

_"Black Widow does not love. Black Widow does not fail."_

That awful voice drowned out everything. The one that rid her of her strength, that fed her anger and terror, that commanded her like nothing else ever would. It echoed in her mind, ripping her memories apart, tearing through her soul and destroying everything. The shadows swallowed the light. Her directive was all that survived. Her mission. Her target. She needed to finish it. She needed to finish _him_. That was what she'd been made for. _"Kill him and come home."_

She sobbed and screamed and struggled against the truth, against _what she had done_, watching over and over again as she pulled that trigger. As Steve's eyes widened in pain and shock. As he raised his trembling fingers to vainly hold them over the pulsing hole in his chest. As she lowered the gun and reminded him of the cost of loving her. She watched so many times, but it always ended the same. She could _never_ stop herself.

_"What the hell's the matter with you?" _Furious hands shook her. She was belted across the face._ "What the hell's the matter with you? Jesus!"_ Shouting. Chaos. Panic. Hands grabbed hers and restrained them. The gun was wrenched from her fingers. A fist struck her jaw and a knee drove into her back and they forced her down like an animal. _"She shot him! She shot Rogers! Is he alive?"_

_"I don't know."_ Blood. So much blood.Everything was soaked in blood and bathed in fire. The whole of their world. _"Hang on, Cap. Christ…"_

_"You bitch! Traitor!"_

_Murderer._

_"Hang on! Help! I need help!"_

"Hold on. I've got you. I've got you…"

It was a hellish eternity of suffering, of cruelty and guilt and terror, before the madness finally left. The fires were burning out, spent and smoldering. With them went the pleasure and the power and the calm satisfaction of completing her mission. And without that, there was only guilt and grief. Serene and steadfast and undeniable. Hurt. Betrayal. Lies. Murder. _Black Widow. _She was nothing now. No one she wanted to be. No one at all. She'd destroyed the only thing she'd wanted, the only pure thing she'd ever had. She'd ruined everything she could have been. An Avenger. An agent of SHIELD. His partner. His friend. The woman he loved. He'd given her his heart, and she'd put a bullet in it.

"No… please, I didn't want… I didn't… Please…"

"We're going to get you through this, Nat. I promise you. We'll get you through this."

_Don't make promises you can't keep._

So many broken vows. So many lies. So much loss. She laughed until she cried. And then she slept.

* * *

When Natasha woke, she was free. Her mind was loose, unbound, the hellish haze that had imprisoned it for days blissfully gone. The hallucinations and voices and phantom sensations had disappeared, releasing her at long last, and she shuddered in all-encompassing relief. She opened eyes that felt grimy and crusted with the salt of unshed tears, blinking lethargically as the scene overhead finally sharpened into something she could understand. A gunmetal gray ceiling. Bright fluorescent lights. The distant hum of powerful engines. _The helicarrier. _There was something firm but not uncomfortable beneath her back. The suffocating smell of smoke was gone. The scalding heat and heavy night had been replaced with cool air laced with the aroma of sterility. She closed her eyes a moment, fighting to gather her wits. Nothing cooperated, stubbornly disjointed and detached and useless. Even as her jumbled senses languished and her thoughts remained scattered, one thing was dreadfully clear.

_Steve was gone._

She gasped a sob of utter devastation, trying to roll to her side, but she couldn't. Her hands and feet were bound in padded cuffs. She shivered desperately, helplessly, and tears escaped her eyes that she'd squeezed shut to roll into her hair. Steve was gone. She'd killed him.

"Natasha?"

The familiar voice pierced the despair clenching her heart. A hand closed over her own, warm and strong and callused. "Nat?"

She wanted to ignore the call, to slip back down into the blackness and escape the agony, but she couldn't. She opened her eyes and looked to the right. "Clint?"

"Yeah," he answered softly. His lips turned in just a bit of a comforting smile, but the gesture didn't reach his eyes. He looked exhausted and burdened with worry. Worry for her. "You with me now?"

There had been that voice consoling her before. She knew now it had been his. His hands holding her gently to the bed, tipping water into her mouth, easing her as her stomach heaved and her lungs failed and the poison had consumed her. Whispering comfort. Cutting through the fever. Trying so desperately to fix her, to ride out the hellish nightmare with her. To bring her back. "Yes," she whispered.

Clint nodded, visibly relieved. "Let me get these off." He went to work unbuckling the straps that restrained her to the bed. As he did, flashes of horrors burst through her mind. Her own voice shrieking. Doctors and nurses and Clint trying to calm her, struggling to sedate her. God, what the hell had happened to her? What had she done?

_You know what you did._

Natasha choked. Nothing seemed quite real, but she knew it was and it would only be weakness and craziness to try and convince herself otherwise. She was lost in it all, unfocused and reeling and trembling, as Clint freed her. He wordlessly slipped a hand under her back and helped her sit up. Dizziness assailed her, so violent and powerful that she feared she'd throw up. But she swallowed everything down and breathed long and hard through her nose and waited for the small room to stop spinning and settle. "Here. Drink. You're dehydrated. We couldn't keep an IV in."

He offered her a cup filled with ice water. Numbly she took it, lifting it to her dried and cracked lips. She started to notice things as the numbness vanished. She hurt all over. Her sprained hand was braced in a splint. Her leg was bandaged. Her chest ached with every deep breath. Her head was pounding miserably with each beat of her battered, laboring heart. Her arms were covered in bruises. Track marks in her veins. _Injections._ She couldn't stand to look at them. The hospital gown she wore was too skimpy and short to pull it over the red spots. She was naked beneath it, exposed and vulnerable.

Clint stood in front of her, watching as she vacantly sipped the water. "Do you remember what happened?"

In some ways, she remembered everything. In others… She couldn't bear it. "No."

"The STRIKE Team brought you in. You've been here for a day. Your system's been purging whatever drug you were given. It's, uh… The withdrawal hasn't been pretty. You were seriously–"

"Screwed up," she whispered. Broken. Damaged. _Insane._

Clint cocked an eyebrow. "That's one way to put it." He sighed gently as if he was debating explaining her condition further. She trusted him in ways she didn't trust anyone else. After all, he'd saved her five year ago, pulled her from Brushov's hell and brought her literally out of darkness. He'd convinced Fury to give her a chance, to make her an agent of SHIELD. He knew her heart and her mind and her body in ways that no one else did. But sitting there, his eyes intently watching her, analyzing her, _judging_ her… She'd never felt so low. "The compound in your blood affected your brain. It messed with your limbic system, caused a heightened sense of hostility and anxiety. It jacked your anxiety through the roof. The amount of adrenaline in your body was elevated to unhealthy levels. Your heart rate and blood pressure wouldn't come down no matter how many sedatives the docs gave you. You were having hallucinations so bad that I didn't think we could ever get through to you. It was… I was worried." Natasha grimaced, unable to stifle her reaction. Clint rarely admitted he was concerned, let alone frightened. He was stoic and steady, even in the darkest and most desperate of situations. To see that he had been scared for her… It nearly broke her again.

"You were on the verge of a heart attack. This stuff you were injected with nearly killed you," he announced gravely. She closed her eyes and wished it had. "But you got through it."

Her hand was shaking so bad she could barely hold the cup steady. He took it from her before it spilled and set it back to a table beside the bed. The silence that came was deep and unyielding. The insanity might have been gone, but the miseries it had left behind were threatening. Every quiet breath, every beat of her aching heart, was filled with them. Memories and whispers and desires. She tried to draw up her shields, to protect herself with chilly apathy like she'd done in the past, but she didn't have the strength or the fortitude. Clint released a long breath again, staring at her. She wasn't brave enough to look at him, terrified of what she'd find in his eyes. Accusation. Hatred. Understanding. Forgiveness. She wasn't sure what she deserved. "What happened wasn't your fault," he finally said. That was worse than anything. A goddamn placating _lie._ "The doctors said with the levels of that serum compromising you, you had no idea what you were doing."

"Yes, I did," she whispered harshly. He couldn't take her guilt from her. She wouldn't let him. "I knew exactly what I was doing."

He was stiff in front of her. She still refused to meet his gaze, her eyes blankly focused on her wrists where they crossed each other in her lap. They were bruised black and blue. "Brushov took you back."

She flinched at the disappointment in his voice. She wasn't sure if it was disappointment in her or not. He'd always looked out for her, taught her how to walk the straight and narrow, to stay pure and good in the face of the evil of the past. He'd been the one to unmake her and help her build herself into something better. To hear her confess like this, beyond argument or defense or even understanding, probably cut him deeply. He'd had faith in her when no one else had, and she'd ruined that, too. "I didn't want to," she said, her hard mask crumbling. "I tried to fight, but I…" But she what? _Succumbed. _If Brushov hadn't used the serum on her, would she have struggled until the end? Would she have chosen death over serving him again? She didn't know.

Obviously Clint didn't, either. "That's not terribly comforting," he said dully. She finally looked to him, hurt (though, honestly, she had no right to be). "And it's not going to be much of an excuse. Rumlow wants to crucify you. I'm not sure Fury's going to protect you. I'm not sure anyone is going to protect you. Nobody understands what happened, Nat. The STRIKE Team has their account, but nobody really knows what went down between you and Rogers. You could have just escaped after you shot Perry, but you went after the Cap."

"He was my target."

"Brushov ordered you to kill him?"

"I had to do it." The vindictive bastard. It almost felt like Steve had been used against her, not the other way around.

He looked like he didn't understand. Of everyone, he was probably the only one who could. "Nobody knows what to think."

Nobody. Not even him. She looked away, simultaneously believing she shouldn't be punished for her actions yet desiring nothing so acutely. There was no way for her to prove she'd been forced to take the serum. There was no way for her to prove she'd been a prisoner, not a participant. There was no way to prove that Brushov had taken her, that she hadn't gone back to him. What did it matter, at any rate? _I shot Steve. I killed him._

Desperation burned her. "What do you think?" she asked hotly. Her tone was tight and frustrated. "That I wanted to shoot my partner? That I wanted to…" Her voice failed her. Even she couldn't defend herself.

Clint didn't answer immediately. He'd been her partner, too, on the battlefield and for countless dangerous missions in the past. He was her friend, her confidant, even her lover when the occasion suited them both. He lowered himself into a chair that had been positioned beside the bed and leaned back, slouching wearily. He stared at her evenly, appraising her again. He sighed. "I don't know," he admitted. Something inside her throbbed mercilessly at seeing his faith in her waver. "I didn't want to believe it, but… The truth hurts worse than lies sometimes." She knew that better than anyone. He shook his head. "I do think there's going to be hell to pay if Rogers dies."

_If?_ Her heart sped in sudden panic. "What? He – he's not…" Horror and joy rushed over her simultaneously, and the suddenly the gray room was spinning and the lights were blinding and her head was pounding with the need to know. She moved without thinking, her bare feet hitting the cold, metallic floor. She tried to stand but her body just wouldn't, her knees buckling and her nerves tingling with weakness and her head spinning with nausea. She wasn't going to be stopped. She made her legs be firm, ignored the awful flops her stomach was doing, and rose above the throbbing in her skull. "Where is he?"

"Easy! Just take it easy!" Clint said, jolting to his feet and moving quickly to grab her arms. He didn't push her back onto the bed, but he was clearly not pleased that she was up. "You need to rest!"

"Where is he, Barton?" she demanded, trying to wriggle free of his grasp. His fingers pressed with bruising intensity into her skin. The harsh intensity of her glare was staggering, but he held firm. As firm as Steve had been when he hadn't let her go. The pain grew sharp. Tears filled her eyes. "Please… just tell me where he is."

Clint hesitated for an eternity longer, obviously uncertain of whether or not he should reveal anything about Rogers' condition. She feared for a moment it was because he didn't trust her or thought the monster of her rage would return to complete her mission at the possibility of her failure. But it wasn't that. His eyes were soft with worry. He didn't want her to be hurt anymore. "In the ICU," he finally said, and his fingers loosened in their grip.

She turned and rushed from her room. "Natasha, wait. Wait!" She didn't listen. She couldn't hear him because her mind was rushing with so many things, so many words and sensations and memories. She couldn't stop to think. She couldn't stop to feel. She surged down the corridor on unsteady feet that threatened to topple her at any second. The nurses and doctors and agents she passed regarded her with wide eyes, with shock and alarm. With fear. With blame. With hate. They all knew the truth, and their angry glares knocked her back. _Black Widow shot Captain America._ _Black Widow murdered Captain America. _She nearly backpedaled, nearly recoiled and returned to the safety of her room. But Clint was behind her, his strong hands steadying her again, and when she looked back to the people around her, they weren't staring. They weren't even _there_ anymore.

How much longer was the serum going to torment her? Paranoia and hallucinations. Insanity. _Hell._ Maybe that was where she belonged, what she deserved.

_No. Steve's still alive._ There was a chance… There was hope.

She was shaken, though, and her strength and bravery all but vanished. Clint draped a robe around her shivering body. "Come on. You need to take things slow. I got you." He walked with her, an arm around her shoulders to guide her and protect her. The frantic rush of her heart was tempered by trepidation, and she looked down to her bare feet shuffling along the deck plating and tried ardently not to feel or think. Eventually they reached the ICU, and Clint stood still for the biometric scanner. The computer acknowledged him and the doors swished open. It was only a few more steps after that before Clint grasped the handle to the door of one of the rooms. He pulled it open for her.

She wanted to work up the courage to look. She needed to gather her composure, to try and pull that stoic mask she always wore so adeptly into place, but there was no time. The minute the door opened, she saw Steve. The lights were dimmed over the hospital bed, but they still showed every horror. His large frame was completely unmoving. He was covered in bandages. Around his left thigh. Around his stomach. Around right hand and his chest. White was streaked with red. And where she could see skin, it was cut and scraped and bruised. His left leg from his knee down to his toes was in a cast. His back was braced by plastic and metal. His face was lax, deeply unconscious, lusterless blond hair limp upon his brow, his eyes encircled in darkness and tightly closed. A tube ran from his slack lips, secured into place by tape. It connected to one of the innumerable machines surrounding the bed. His chest was slowly rising and falling, rhythmically, _methodically_ because a respirator was breathing for him. Things were beeping, the monitors surrounding him proclaiming for all to see how very badly he was hurt (as if that could even be denied, as if anyone had the strength and audacity to hope otherwise). But he was still alive. Just barely alive.

This was so wrong. It was so wrong.

_You did this._

Natasha couldn't make sense of it. She didn't remember much of the STRIKE Team's harried and chaotic return after the firefight on the Russian pier. Everything had collapsed inside her, unable to support the weight of the truth. The doctors had rushed Steve away, trying to save his life. She'd assumed they'd failed, and then she'd lost herself in the fire again because it was easier to feel anger than it was to feel anything else. It was easier to make herself believe that Steve was dead because facing the extent of what she'd done was unbearable. Now it was all before her, stark and true and undeniable. Steve's strong hands were limp and broken. Steve's body, smooth skin and muscle beneath her caressing fingers and lips, was bleeding and wrecked. Steve's eyes, so damn _sure_ that she could be good and pure, that she could be saved, were closed tightly and hiding him from the horrors of the world. Steve's voice, promising things he should never have promised, was silent.

_You did this to him._

Tears burned her. She wanted him back the way he had been. She wanted to go back to that one night where she'd let him inside, to all those nights and days before it where she'd flirted with him because it had been fun to see him blush so innocently, where he'd laughed at her jokes and smiled at her knowingly and led her with a firm hand and an impenetrable heart filled with valor. She wanted him back. She wanted him more than she'd ever wanted anything before. This was crushing. The serum hadn't been hell. _This was hell._

And she was trapped with the evidence of her own evil right before her eyes.

Her lips moved in a ragged whisper. "Is there any chance?"

"That he'll recover?" Clint stepped beside her. His face was weary and worried again as he stared at the destroyed form of Captain America. Then he released a slow, long breath and swallowed uncomfortably. "Not much. They got the bullet out of his chest." Natasha flinched, her eyes flicking to the long bandage that ran down the length of Steve's sternum. She could imagine the horrors under it. A ragged, red scar. Staples and stitches. Blood and cut skin and bones broken on purpose so that hands could reach inside his chest and try to repair his wounded heart. The dark room closed in about her, shadows and suffocation, and she grabbed the foot of his bed to steady herself. "But there's a lot of damage. And obviously his fight with the Red Guardian did a number on him. Twice over." She grimaced again as a flood of unwanted memories assailed her. Alexei screaming like a madman. Alexei driving Steve down. Alexei breaking Steve's back. Even with that, Steve had gotten up and come back and rescued her. He could have left her to Brushov's tortures, to the madness and sickness. He could have killed her, but he hadn't. He was too strong and pure and _good_.

He was nothing like her.

_You did this to him!_

"He's been touch and go. He's in a coma. The doctors aren't hopeful that he'll come out of it." Clint's quiet words seemed thunderous in the vacuous quiet. Natasha couldn't stand to tear her eyes from Steve's bruised, unconscious body. It hurt to look at him, to commit every injury to memory. But she did. This was all she could do. At the very least, she owed him this measure of bravery and honor. She wouldn't hide from the brutality. "But he's tough. He made it this far. And he's Captain America. That's gotta mean something."

_Captain America._ She hadn't thought of Steve like that for what felt to be forever. And it did mean something. Captain America had stopped the Red Guardian. Captain America had sunk those ships and prevented a madman from spreading his poison all over the world. Captain America had saved her life. Her throat tightened until she could barely speak. "I tried to give him an out. I tried so hard to get him to back off. He didn't know what he was getting into."

"He knew."

Tears blurred her vision. "Why didn't he wait for backup?"

"They called it in," Clint said.

"It was too late! He should have known better. He should have been smarter! What the hell was he thinking?" The anger was irrational, but she couldn't stop it. She was furious with him. Furious that he'd gone after her already so injured. Furious that he'd pushed himself to the brink and paid the price. Furious that he'd been so goddamn stupid and self-sacrificing in a world that honored and respected _nothing_.

Clint didn't answer right away, and that tense, miserable silence returned. "I think he was trying to protect you," he finally said. Natasha turned sharply and glared at Clint with watery eyes. He refused to be dissuaded, watching her evenly. His hard expression wasn't malicious, simply firm with the truth. "You were on the wrong side, Nat. Willingly or not. And SHIELD doesn't ask questions anymore. They just strike hard and fast and first."

That hurt more than she could admit. How quickly her good deeds had been forgotten in the face of her reputation, of her past. "Brushov _took_ me," she said again. This time she wanted to defend herself. It hadn't been her choice. None of it had been. The pain rose up, swelling like a tidal wave, and she could barely keep ahead of it. "He wanted me back, so he took me. Gave me a mission. A target. Just like he always had, he turned me into his weapon, and I had to follow his orders." The sob pushing up her throat hurt, but she swallowed it down. And the anger disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving her with the same sad fact that was indefensible. "I knew exactly what I was doing."

Clint's taut expression loosened as her shoulders quivered with the strain of holding herself together. He watched her as she struggled, and a heavy moment of emptiness crawled away. In its wake he set his hand to her shoulder and pulled her around and tugged her to his chest. She couldn't relax, not even surrounded by the familiar comfort of his embrace. "You remember what you told me after Loki took me? After he turned me into his weapon." Of course she remembered. It was bullshit, and she didn't want to hear it because this was different. "You told me not to do this to myself."

"Stop," she hoarsely begged. "Just… Please don't try to make it better." He kissed her forehead roughly. "Please don't." She felt every bit of his worry, of his fear that he'd lost her if not in body then in soul. His muscles were tight with pain. She didn't think she could bear his grief in addition to her own. She was raw and brittle and torn. The contact of his skin to hers was repulsive. The thought of solace, of forgiveness, was repulsive. She didn't deserve absolution. Not from him. Not from anyone.

"I don't know how to help you." His voice was a low rumble against her hair. "I don't know–"

"You can't," she declared while her strength lasted her. There was no coming back from this. He couldn't offer her redemption or a chance at walking the straight path or a way to wash this blood from her hands. She'd shot Captain America. It was her fault, and there was no way to make it better. She'd known _exactly _what she'd been doing. Even if she hadn't want to. Even if she'd been made to do it. Even if she couldn't stop herself. Violation. No. _Weakness._

Steve would have killed himself before he ever let himself hurt her.

"Go. Please."

"Nat–"

"Please, Clint. Just go."

He hesitated a moment more, leaning back to gaze into her face. She refused to look at him. She couldn't bear it. She wasn't trying to be cold and cruel, but that was who she was, it seemed. He was hurt that she didn't trust him. He was hurt that she was sending him away. She was such a goddamn coward. He finally nodded, pressed his lips to her brow again, and left. The door softly shut behind him.

The ventilator swished. The monitors pulsed and beeped and kept telling her Steve was still alive. She stepped closer to the bed, her legs moving, her heart beating and her lungs breathing and her soul shaking. Tentatively she reached for his left hand. It didn't seem right to touch him now, to hold his hand as she'd done so many times in the past. Simple moments that she'd taken for granted. Simple moments that were lost forever. Even if he came back… She didn't want to entertain the thought, because if it didn't happen, the pain would be made so much worse by hope. But Steve had taught her too much about faith to disregard it. He could come back from this. And when he did, he would never forgive her.

She had no right to touch him. _No right._ But she did, because she was still so damn selfish. Lightly she dragged her trembling fingers over his skin. It was dry and smooth and cold. She folded their fingers together and swept her thumb across his split knuckles. And she had no right to kiss him. But she did. _Selfish. _She choked on a sob and touched her lips tenderly to his hand. Her knees failed her and she went down beside his bed, holding it all inside because she had no right to grieve. She had no right to cry over him.

She pressed his limp hand to her cheek and her mouth to his palm. She closed her eyes and imagined his face looking up at her. The night bathed them both, but he radiated his own light, blue and gold and beautiful and so very warm. His hand caressed her cheek and wiped away her tears. His mouth closed over hers, his fingers sweeping into her hair and holding her close. If she could live in this moment, she would. Forever.

When she opened her eyes, his hand was still lifeless and cold and his eyes were still closed and he was still dying. He was dying because of her and her past and the dark world into which she'd dragged him. _ I did this to him. I did it._

"Steve," she whispered. There were so many things she should have told him. She should have told him the truth, _all _of the truth, even the parts she lied about to herself. The Red Room. What Brushov had done to her. The things that had been taken from her. Who she was. And she should have apologized and begged him to return to her and begged his forgiveness and begged his understanding. She should have tried to explain and made promises and thanked him for everything he'd done for her. But she didn't.

No, she confessed something, the one thing she would have never had the strength and courage to tell him otherwise. If he could have heard her, if he could have known… This was the only way she could speak the truth. She carefully and gently laid herself beside his lifeless body and pressed her head to his breast and listened for his heartbeat. It was _there_, strained and slow and tortured, but still there. Cold tears slowly rolled down her face and dampened the bandages over his chest. She closed her eyes and pretended she was back in his apartment, stealing glances at him as he dressed and trying to convince herself that she didn't need him, that she didn't want him. That she didn't _love_ him.

But she did. "I love you, too."

She was a monster, pure and simple. Those few tears were all she could manage. She didn't deserve to cry over him, but it didn't matter because she couldn't. She couldn't cry at all. So she closed her eyes and listened to his heart and silently hated herself.

* * *

She wasn't left alone with him for long. The door to the room opened, and Nick Fury stepped inside. Natasha turned wearily and faced him, not making any move to hide the fact that her eyes were red and her cheeks were still wet, that she had Steve's hand enfolded in her own, that she was crushed and lost and so very low. Fury's face was impassive, an emotionless frown tight on his lips. But she knew him too well not to see the sorrow, the confusion and anger and disappointment. The regret. "I want to know what happened," he softly said. She wasn't certain if that was an order from her commanding officer or a request from a man that, on occasion, she considered a friend. "I want to hear it from you."

Surprisingly she felt calm and composed, more so than she had since picking Steve up from his apartment the night before this disaster of a mission had begun. She stared at Fury evenly. Everything was down again, buried under her covers, under her lies and masks and defenses. She was an agent of SHIELD debriefing her director. Only that and nothing more. She gently set Steve's hand down on the hospital bed, her fingers lingering against his for a second, longing to feel him grab her or touch her or even move. There was nothing. "Brushov already had a super soldier. The Red Guardian." _Alexei._ He was dead, too. He'd sacrificed himself for her just as Steve had, and they were both gone. That was what her love did. It destroyed people.

Fury's voice drew her from her dark thoughts. "Rumlow mentioned that in his report. The techs recovered a mountain of data from a warehouse in Sokolyne."

Natasha nodded. "Rogers and I tracked the serum there. We infiltrated, but before I could get out with a sample, we were attacked by Brushov's men. Brushov had planted Petrovich to lure you into sending Captain America so that he could pit Rogers against the Red Guardian." Fury wasn't pleased. His eye flashed in anger and alarm, though she didn't know whether it was over the fact that he had been played or the fact that his top agents had been lured into a trap with such a brutal purpose behind it. "Rogers lost the fight. Brushov took me prisoner and injected me with his insanity serum. He told me to kill Captain America and return to him." She looked down. Saying it had been too easy. Too simple and too easy. Like it had happened to someone else.

"The Red Guardian beat the crap out of Rogers and left him to die," Fury said quietly, "and _nobody_ thought to call this in."

"I can't explain Steve's reasoning, Nick. I wasn't there."

"No, you were busy being reprogrammed into a mindless murderer," Fury irately declared. Her mask cracked and she flinched. She wasn't strong enough to stifle it. The Director put his hands on his hips and shifting his weight. He sighed, like he was trying to wrap his head around all of this. "And he was busy disobeying a direct order and leading an unauthorized military strike on foreign soil."

"With all due respect, it might not have come to that if you'd been honest with him about what this mission was really all about," Natasha returned icily. "You pitted me against my partner. I _betrayed_ him to achieve your directives. Why even have us work together if you're going to set us against one another? You _knew_ he wouldn't agree to it."

"The order to retrieve the serum came from above," Fury returned. Natasha had suspected that was the case, and it softened her anger a bit but not enough. "I had no choice. And I gave it to you because I knew you could get it done even if Rogers stood in your way. Secretary Pierce wanted the jump on Brushov. You know better than anyone how dangerous he is and how hard he's been to capture or kill. He figured we needed a contingency plan in case whatever Brushov was building got loose in the world. We needed a way to neutralize the super soldiers Brushov created."

"Well, thankfully, there was only one and he's dead," Natasha declared coldly. "And you got to have your cake and eat it, too. You got your sample of the serum, and Rogers shut Brushov down for you." She was unable to keep the spite from her voice. Fury appraised her evenly. "I find it hard to believe you couldn't extract the serum from my blood."

Fury sighed softly. He had the decency to look somewhat ashamed. "We did. Pierce's orders." She felt cheated. Violated again, and it was even worse because it had been at the hands of people she'd trusted. Maybe Steve had been right to doubt. Maybe the insanity serum was strictly evil and should only be destroyed. "Unfortunately the sample's not pure. But it's probably good enough. They're working on coming up with an antidote. Considering what that serum made you do and what it did to you, it won't be soon enough in coming." She didn't know what to say to that. That the ends justified the means? That there was consolation in the fact that something like this could be stopped in the future? It was nonsense. Their lives had been destroyed to build a deterrent to biological warfare. The road to hell was truly paved with good intentions. _And bad intentions masquerading as good. _Rogers wasn't as naïve as she'd thought.

Fury was continuing to speak, so she made herself pay attention. "The Russians are screaming bloody murder. The fall-out from this is going to be widespread. Captain America raiding a Russian port and sinking two Russian ships. The World Security Council is shitting a brick."

"If there's a price to be paid for going in there without getting your say-so, I think he's more than paid it," Natasha declared. "And he did the right thing."

Fury wasn't pleased with her tone. "I agree. He made a tough call but in the end he stopped Brushov from unleashing a weapon we weren't prepared to face. It's going to take the researchers weeks if not months to come up with an antidote to the serum. By then, we could have had a world filled with maniacs and murderers, far more so than it already is and that's damn scary." He released a long breath, folding his arms over his chest with a creak of leather. "I think I can convince the Council to see it that way. And I think the Russians will back off if the media happens to get wind of what Brushov was trying to do and his ties back to old Soviet interests. They'll want to distance themselves from that. There's no love lost between Moscow and Brushov."

"So what is this?" Natasha asked. "All's well that ends well? Everything's okay. SHIELD gets the serum and we consider the mission a success." She could hardly believe the spite she heard in her voice. Life wasn't fair. Things rarely ended as they should. The innocent were hurt and the good men were abused and the evil got stronger. That was the way things went. There was nothing right about any of this.

"Not quite," Fury answered unhappily. "The Council wants you arrested for attempted murder. And they're not the only ones. Most of the STRIKE Team is behind them. Pierce is behind them. And if Rogers dies…" Fury's eye darted to Steve's comatose body. "I don't think I can protect you if we lose him."

She felt every muscle in her body tense. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe. All of the countless murders she'd committed. Robberies and arsons and massacres… The hypocrisy of it all was astounding. She'd committed endless atrocities at Brushov's side in her youth, but those had been overlooked because she was the best spy and assassin in the world and SHIELD had needed her. But now that she had shot Captain America (which was nothing to cast aside, for sure), she was damaged goods. She was expendable. And they want her chained and locked up and punished for this _one _act. She'd been under the influence of a psychosis-inducing chemical compound when she'd shot Steve, and _this_ was the unpardonable crime. She'd thought that as well but her reasons were grounded in emotion, not logic. And then she realized what the Council wanted. "They need a scapegoat."

Fury respected her enough to not argue. "I think so."

Natasha didn't know what to say, what to think. It would be a lie to say she was not frightened or disgusted or hurt by it. She was being betrayed by the very people to whom she'd pledged her allegiance. She was being betrayed by the people who'd wanted to give her the chance to reform herself and wash all that red from her ledger. But the way Fury was staring at her suggested he wasn't there to take her into custody. Even if he couldn't protect her, he was going to try. "Natasha, I'm sorry. I should have never sent you on this mission." That wasn't what she expected him to say. Fury rarely admitted he was wrong. To hear him apologize for a mistake was staggering. It wasn't the comfort she thought it might be, because if Fury had screwed up, if Fury had been played the fool, then the world was darker and more dangerous than anyone knew. "I thought you would provide insight into the situation, knowing you had ties to Garanin and Brushov. And I thought… Well, it doesn't matter that I thought."

"You did what you thought was best," she softly said, numb and lost. She looked down at Steve. "So did he."

"I know that. And I know you." Fury shook his head, his gaze soft and sorrowful. "I know if there had been a way to stop yourself, you would have done it."

"I–"

"You're not the same person Barton brought before me five years ago. You're not the same person he begged me to spare. And you know that, too."

Natasha wasn't so sure anymore. Before she'd seen Brushov, she hadn't thought about the dark places in her heart in some time. She'd been beside Tony Stark, stopping Ivan Vanko and Justin Hammer from threatening innocents. She'd been an Avenger. She'd been on countless missions with Clint and Steve, fighting for right and justice and the security of the world. That one glance at that hideous face had unearthed so much darkness. Killing for pleasure. Killing for power. Killing for vengeance. She hadn't taken a life like that in so long. She'd surrounded herself in so much good that she had been made better because of it. Was she going to throw that all away?

She felt fire again, but it wasn't the insanity serum burning away her control. It was her own heart, burning with strength. Burning with defiance.

Fury sighed. "I get the impression the Council wants to close the books quickly on this one. And Secretary Pierce seems to think the best course of action is to wait until Brushov moves again. He's playing it safe and trying not to stir the hornet's nest. But I'm not sure that's good enough. Brushov's weak now and probably looking for a safe place to regroup. There's never been a better opportunity to hit him. I don't need to explain to you what a threat he poses. Even if he can't make another super soldier, that won't stop him from trying. You and I both know that. Or from trying to dose the world on his insanity serum."

Some part of her understood what he wanted, but she couldn't quite believe it that he wanted it. At least, that he wanted it done like this. "What are you asking?"

"I think you know," Fury obliquely answered. He stepped closer, lowering his voice and curling his hands over the plastic foot of Steve's hospital bed. "This mission isn't finished. I'm changing the directives. Stop Brushov." He glanced to Steve. "And then kill him." His glare narrowed, his eye raking over the damage done to Captain America. Fury could be ruthless when it suited him, and he was in a strange way protective of his agents. Of his assets. Captain America was that above anything else. An asset, the _best_ asset, in the war on evil. A shield between light and dark, a hero of the highest caliber. And Fury wasn't above disobeying orders himself when it came down to it. He looked back at Natasha. She was another of his assets. His weapon. "You want the go-ahead to take him out? It's yours."

Natasha lifted her chin. That calm sense of purpose came over her. With Brushov it had always felt this way, too. Detachment. Cold power. Strength from apathy. Fury watched her evenly. "Coordinate with Hill; she has people searching for him. No exposure. Track the son of a bitch down and finish him. Understood?"

She took a deep breath and gave a curt nod. This was familiar. This was what she did. This _grounded_ her. "Understood."

"Get it done, Agent Romanoff." Fury looked at Steve's sleeping form again. "And you better wake up, Cap. You and I need to have a discussion about trust." He gave Natasha a final knowing look before leaving the room.

Natasha stood still. The ventilator was still swishing, and the monitors were still beeping. It seemed very far away now. She felt distant, resolute and hardened. The fire was burning, but it was the one she knew. The one she could control. If her past had come back to destroy her future, she would destroy it. Evil like that didn't need to be studied or ignored or redeemed. It needed to be _annihilated_. It was that simple. Redemption and revenge. Fury was giving her what he knew she needed.

She looked down at Steve's still body again. A pang of doubt flashed through her mind. What if he died? What if… No, she wouldn't think about that. Yet it still felt wrong to leave him like this, on death's doorstep, put there by her hands. _Maybe by my hands, but not by my heart. And I'll make Brushov pay for everything he's done to us._

This promise she would make damn sure she kept.

She lowered her hand to Steve's, grasping it firmly, feeling his fingers twitch weakly and mindlessly against her own. She looked to his face and saw his eyelids flutter just the tiniest bit. He wouldn't want this. He wouldn't want her to do it, not for him and not for herself. But she would do it because this was who she was. This was all she could ever be.

She drew a short breath to keep her resolve and leaned down and roughly kissed his forehead. Then she set his hand over his chest and walked away.

* * *

Natasha moved fast. She always did when she had a mission. She wasn't well and she knew it but she ignored it. She found her way to her standing quarters aboard the helicarrier and quickly showered and methodically examined her body and found that her injuries were a nuisance but not serious enough to hamper her. Her head was still pounding, and nothing seemed quite right like the world was slightly off-kilter (or she was, which seemed infinitely more likely). But she buried that all down deep and dressed her in familiar black outfit. The smooth leather was tight to her skin, and she relished the feel of it like it was part of her. Another layer. She slid a gun into each hip holster and attached a sheathed knife onto her belt and placed another pistol around her calf under her boot. Then she donned her Widow's Bite around her wrists.

Just like that, she was ready. And she moved through the helicarrier, ignoring the questioning glances and the doubtful glares and the whispers. They meant nothing. Once she had her target, nothing could stop her. She found her way to the flight deck, moving upward quickly from the bowels of the ship and saw Clint was waiting for her beside a quinjet he'd already prepped for take-off.

He was armed to the teeth. She could see the guns in the holsters strapped to his legs and his fully stocked quiver and bow. And there were weapons loaded into the rear of the jet. Shotguns and assault rifles and grenades. But other than the two of them, there was no one else.

They'd never needed anyone else.

She wasn't even sure she needed him. Somehow having him with her felt akin to exposing someone else to the blackness of her past again. And not because he'd be in mortal danger. "Fury know you're here?" she coolly asked.

"No," he answered. "I'm not here for him."

"You don't have to do this," she said as she walked up the ramp into the jet.

He matched her stride perfectly. "I know." He glanced at her once.

They didn't say anything more about it. If he was worried about her (and she knew he was), he wisely didn't bring it up. If he thought she wasn't ready or that this was unwise, if he believed that going on some violent crusade to exact her revenge would only hurt her further, he didn't tell her. She was silently grateful for that. And she was comforted with him beside her. She wouldn't have to face whatever lay in wait alone.

They secured the jet in a matter of minutes, working together like a well-oiled machine, speaking without words and knowing with only glances and silence. He slid into the pilot's seat, pulling headphones down over his ears and flipping switches as he readied the flight controls. She sat beside him, putting on her own headphones and watching him, feeding off of his strength and steadiness and stoicism. He communicated with the flight deck personnel and with the tower. She listened, the rush of words meaningless as they filled her head. In short order they were given permission to leave. "Ready?"

She said nothing. He throttled the rotors of the jet up for vertical take-off. A few seconds later they were clear of the helicarrier and rising far above the ocean. With well-practiced precision, he switched over to the aircraft's powerful engines, and a moment later they were cutting through the evening sky.

Natasha drew a deep breath. Every part of her was tense with anticipation. And fear. And anger. She was going back into the darkness again. She was going back to Brushov as she had so many times in the past. But this time she wouldn't let him take her. This time she wouldn't let him own her. This time she would fight the madness.

And this time she would kill him. She didn't care what it cost her. She didn't care if it damaged her beyond repair, if it destroyed her completely. She'd already lost the only thing that mattered.


End file.
